


In the Face of Death

by Rumaan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Crossover, Drama, F/M, Jon x Sansa Remix, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4818809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumaan/pseuds/Rumaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a long list of things Jon never expected, Sansa came top. Written for Round 1 of the Jon x Sansa Remix over on Livejournal - remixing Jon and Sansa into Katniss and Peeta from The Hunger Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Jon x Sansa Remix (held over at Livejournal - you can check out 11 days of submissions and there was some great art and fic) and is a pretty straight forward remix of Katniss/Peeta from The Hunger Games.
> 
> Many thanks to jeeno2 who looked over the first couple of chapters for me and also listened to me worry that this was a *too* straight forward retelling and also gave me her opinion on casting ASOIAF characters into the THG roles.
> 
> I own neither The Hunger Games or A Song of Ice and Fire. This was written purely for fun

The sun was high in the sky as the residents of the North began to gather in Torrhen’s Square for the reaping. The square would usually look pleasant with the cheerful sunlight glinting off the shop fronts that lined the square, but today there was an atmosphere of grimness that couldn’t be chased away by the weak sunshine. It was reaping day and that was never a happy occasion in any of the regions.

Jon clapped Bran on the shoulder as his brother wheeled himself in front of him to sign in. It was his first reaping and he had the anxious look that all twelve year olds carried the first time they filed into the square to line up and find out if they are going to die.

After signing in, Jon found himself standing in amongst a group of other eighteen year olds from the Gift. They exchanged terse nods before turning their attention towards the podium where two large bowls sat either side of a microphone. Jon tried his hardest not to focus on them or the fact that there were twenty slips in there with his name on.

Instead, he stared at the three chairs that sat on the podium just behind the bowls. Two were already occupied. One by the mayor of the North, Wyman Manderly, and the other by Myranda Royce with her garish hair and frightening grin.

They were undertaking a rushed whispered conversation and they both glanced at the empty seat before Mayor Manderly stood and began to read from the papers he held. It was the same story each time. The history of how Westeros rose out of the ice and devastation of the War for the Dawn. How it was lead to peace and prosperity by King’s Landing which brought stability back to the eight regions until the rebellion that sought to splinter the land once more into separate kingdoms. However, King’s Landing prevailed, defeating the rebellious regions and obliterating the eighth region beyond the old Wall. Then in order to make sure no such rebellion ever broke out again, King’s Landing had implemented the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Games were simple enough, two tributes, one female and one male, aged between twelve and eighteen from each of the seven regions were reaped each year. Their names picked from the bowls randomly. They were then taken to an arena somewhere within Westeros and forced to fight against each other until only one remained. It was a brutal but efficient way of making sure the regions remained cowed and pliant.

However, the older you became, the more slips you had in the reaping bowl, and to make it more unequal, if you needed extra food throughout the year (which many in the regions did) then you could take tesserae out. Each tesserae was another slip in the bowl with your name on it. There was no limit on how many tesserae you could take out.

Jon should have only had eight slips but instead he had twenty. His best friend, Ygritte, had forty-two. His eyes slid across the square to where she stood awaiting her fate. He caught her eye briefly and she gave him a weak smile as Mayor Manderly droned on.

To make matters even worse, the Games were treated as some kind of festivity; an annual highlight where the winner would be feted and caressed by the residents of King’s Landing and their region would receive prizes that mainly consisted of food while the other regions battled starvation. It was all designed to pitch the regions against one another and make sure there was no real communication and unity between them.

Mayor Manderly read off the list of past Northern winners of the games. In seventy-four years, the North had managed precisely two, of which only one was alive, Jorah Mormont. He made his appearance as his name was called out, sauntering onto the stage looking disinterested and unkempt. The crowd in the square gave perfunctory applause which he reacted to by raising his hands sarcastically. He knew the region had no love for him and he had no love for the region either. As he sat, his elbow dislodged Myranda Royce’s wig, which caused the crowd to laugh.

Mayor Manderly looked mortified. The reaping was being televised live and right now and somehow Jorah Mormont always managed to make the North more of a laughing stock than it already was. Desperate to draw attention back to the reaping, he introduced Myranda Royce, the North’s escort.

As Myranda Royce trotted up to the front of the stage, her hair was slightly askew, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t allow it to dampen her enthusiasm as she sung out her signature, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!”

Jon zoned out as she spoke about the honour of being in the North. Everyone knew she was desperate to get a better region. Somewhere glamourous like the Reach or Westerlands where you had a bigger pool of victors who knew how the game was played and didn’t embarrass you by turning up late or knocking your wig off.

Then it was finally time for the drawing of the names and Myranda Royce stepped up the bowl with all the girls’ names in and said as she did every year, “Ladies first!”.

Jon had a brief moment to hope that it was not Ygritte who was pulled out.

She dug deep into the bowl before pulling out a slip of paper that she smoothed down as she stepped back towards the microphone and said, “Sansa Stark.”

There was silence as the pretty and popular red haired girl stood and stared at the ground in shock for a moment before she made her way quietly to podium, her face white. There was movement down the line from where Jon stood and he turned his head to see Sansa’s brother, Robb, having to be held back by a couple of his friends. His face was red from straining against his friends and he looked distraught.

Jon could see the tears in Sansa’s eyes as she stopped on the stage next to Myranda Royce who beamed at her. He willed her not cry and found himself proud when she blinked them back and raised her head as she stood there on the podium as Myranda Royce asked if there were any volunteers.

Jon could not help but stare at Robb, who looked as if he was desperate to volunteer for his sister, but he was not allowed as she was a girl. Everyone knew the Starks were a close knit family and while most people wouldn’t volunteer for a sibling, Jon would bet the little money he had that Robb would.

“And now for the boys!” Myranda Royce trilled as she stepped over to the other bowl.

Jon just had time to hold his breath and hope that it wasn’t his name that was called out.

It wasn’t, but it didn’t make him any luckier.

Instead, the one name he never wanted to hear was called out.

“Brandon Snow.”

The name rung out across the square and Jon’s heart stopped for a horrible moment that would be seared into his brain for the rest of his life. Time slowed down and he turned and watched as Bran’s peers stepped away from his wheelchair leaving his brother isolated and looking even more vulnerable than usual.

This shouldn’t have happened. It was Bran’s first reaping. He had just turned twelve last month and he only had one slip in the bowl. Jon had worked hard to make sure that was the case. Now he was left watching as Bran slowly wheeled his way towards the podium where Myranda Royce stood beckoning him.

There was a murmur of unhappy noise from the crowd as there always was when twelve year old year was reaped because it was so unfair.

It took the squeak of Bran’s wheels going past him to break Jon out of his stupor and he surged forward, breaking free of the other eighteen year olds around him.

“Bran,” he shouted. “Bran, no!”

“I volunteer!” he called as he pushed through the crowd of other kids who parted easily for him. “I volunteer as tribute.”

Every eye in the square turned his way and Jon shrunk back a little as if he could escape into the shadows somehow.

“Ooh a tribute, how lovely,” Myranda Royce gushed. “However, we need to do this properly. We need the little boy to come up here before we ask if anyone volunteers.”

“What does it matter?” Mayor Manderly said tiredly. “Let him come forward.”

The Mayor looked regretful at the turn of events and Jon wondered if it was because the Mayor vaguely knew him as the boy who sold him berries and sat with his granddaughter, Wylla, at school.

Jon stepped past Bran who grabbed at his arm, his face unhappy. “Jon, no! Don’t do this, Jon.”

“Let go, Bran,” he said, the words sounding harsher than he meant them.

He breathed out a grateful sigh as Ygritte rushed forward, disentangled his brother’s arms and took control of Bran’s wheelchair. “Up you go, Jon,” she said in an unsteady voice before she pushed Bran towards his mother.

Pulling in a deep breath, Jon tried to control the shaking in his limbs as he made his way up onto the stage. He could see Sansa Stark staring at him in amazement out of the corner of his eye.

 “Bravo,” Myranda said as he came to stop up on the podium. “That is the spirit of the Games! What is your name?”

“Jon Snow,” he replied sullenly.

“And I bet my buttons that was your little brother. Don’t want him to steal all the glory, do we?” she said with glee at finally getting some excitement in this backward region. She turned back towards the crowd and continued, “Let’s give some applause to our volunteer!”

To the North’s credit, not one person clapped, not even those who made money off the Games and had no vested interest in the outcome. Perhaps because they knew Jon from Mole Town, but more likely because they knew Bran. No one who had ever met Bran could hate him and by volunteering for him, Jon had somehow become precious to the region.

Instead, the crowd slowly raised their hand in the three fingered salute that was peculiar to their region. It signalled respect and admiration and was often used as a goodbye at funerals. Jon realised that the region was saying goodbye to him.

A lump rose in his throat and sobs crowded the back of his throat, threatening to escape. Jon was grateful when Jorah chose to make his presence clear.

 “Look at this one,” he said sardonically. “Look at this one! Pride the North, this one. He’s braver than you,” he shouted in the direction of the camera and Jon wondered if the mentor was meant to sound as if he was mocking King’s Landing. There was scorn as he’d spat out the word North, which was probably what Jorah was aiming for rather than anything rebellious against King’s Landing.

However, before Jorah could jeopardise proceedings any further, he was tripped by Mayor Manderly and fell off stage, rendering himself unconscious.

Jon found himself grateful to the unseen actions of the Mayor as the cameras remained fixed on Jorah’s unmoving form and gave him time to swallow the sobs back down.

Mayor Manderly stood back up once more, as if he hadn’t just taken out the North’s only remaining victor, and read through the Treaty of Treason as Jon stood staring out towards the crowd who watched both tributes with sad expressions. Once the Mayor had finished, he motioned for them to shake hands and Jon took Sansa’s hand in his as she looked him straight in the eye.

He wondered if his expression was as resigned as hers was. It probably was. Tributes from the poorer regions never had much of a chance in the Games. They were too malnourished compared to those from the richer regions – the Careers – who had been feed well and trained from a young age for the sole purpose of fighting in the Games. When a tribute from one of the poorer regions did win, it was usually through surprise tactics.

There was a flutter of fingers against his and he pondered if she was trying to squeeze his hand in a gesture of reassurance or whether it was a nervous spasm.

 _It was probably the later,_ he thought as they turned away from each other and the national anthem was played.

Once it had finished, Jon was hustled through the doors into the Justice Building where he got an hour to say goodbye to friends and family.

His mother and Bran were the first through the door. Bran’s eyes were red-rimmed and Jon wished he could pull him into his lap as he had done when Bran was a toddler before the accident that had paralysed him. Instead, Bran wheeled his chair as close as possible to him and his hand shot out to grasp Jon’s.

His mother sat down on Jon’s other side and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. There was nothing but silence for a moment before Jon started to advise them on how to survive without him. He didn’t want to make his last moments with his family so grim, but he needed to make sure they could go on without him. He knew Ygritte would look out for them as much as she could with her own larger family to support and he made sure that they know to compensate her with goat’s milk or medicine. Trades were how the region worked, especially the Gift.

Eyeing his mother, Jon took a deep breath before broaching the next topic. “You cannot leave again,” he said to his mother. “Whatever happens in that arena, you have to stay and fight for Bran.”

His mother had never been strong. Her health was weak from having him too young and Jon remembered how precarious her condition had been when she had been pregnant with Bran. Then their father had died in an accident and Lyanna had stopped living for too long. All she had done was lie in her bed sunk in a haze of depression. It had left twelve year old Jon struggling to keep them all alive, but he had managed.

 _With help_ , he reminded himself but now was not time to dwell on that.

“I won’t,” she said.

“You can’t. You have to stay strong for Bran.”

There was a slightly ashamed look in his mother’s eyes at his words but he didn’t have the time to be kind. He needed to make sure that she knew he wasn’t coming back and that she had to take on the burden that Jon had carried since his father died.

“I can look after myself,” Bran said indignantly. “Besides, you are coming back, I know you are.”

Jon looked down at his little brother who gazed anxiously up at him and said, “Promise me you’ll come home, Jon. You have to make it out of the arena. Promise me, Jon.”

“I promise,” he said with a sinking heart. “I will try for you, little brother.”

There was only time for a brief hug before the Peacekeepers were back and ushering his mother and brother out of the door.

Jon sat down on the sofa and put his head in his hands. If Bran’s name had not been called out, they would have been back in their small little home in the Gift by now, looking forward to the fish stew and the strawberries that he had gathered in the woods that morning and had saved for this evening. This morning already felt like a world away.

The door opened and instead of Ygritte, he was surprised to see Wylla Manderly, the granddaughter of the Mayor.  He hadn’t thought she would come and see him despite their companionship at school. Jon had never thought to classify it as a friendship but perhaps it had been if she had come here to see him.

“Tributes are allowed to take a token in from their region,” she said in a strange urgent tone. “I’ll like you to take this.”

She held out the silver badge that had been pinned to her dress when he had stopped by with Ygritte earlier that day to sell her strawberries.

“Your badge,” he said stupidly.

“Yes, take it, please Jon. Make sure you pin it to your clothes when you go into the arena.”

She took his hand, pressed it into his palm and closed his fingers around it before she whirled around and was back out the door before he could say anything else.

Not sure what else to do with the badge, Jon slipped it into his pocket as the door opened once more and Ygritte strode through, a determined expression on her face.

“I don’t want any of those resigned expressions,” she said without preamble. “You are not some helpless tribute from the North. You have skills and you know how to use them.”

He shrugged his shoulders. Ygritte might have faith in him but he wasn’t sure he could go into that arena and do what it took to get back out. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“You can. Listen, knives will be easy to find. Make sure you grab some of those, but you also need to get to a bow. If you get a bow then you can win this.”

“They might not have a bow,” he replied, unnerved by talking about what weapons he needed to go for in the Games arena. “Besides, I’m not as good with a bow as you are.”

“No one is,” Ygritte said with no false modesty. She was amazing with a bow, she knew it but she’d also made sure that he was good, too, when she had taught him. “And if there is no bow then make one. Even a weak bow is better than not having one.”

Jon had never had much success when he tried to recreate the bows Ygritte’s father had made and he wasn’t sure that he would do any better in the arena so he said, “They might not have any wood.”

“They always have wood,” Ygritte replied. “Since that Games when half the tributes froze to death.”

Ygritte was right. A few years ago, the Games had been held in a frozen wasteland where there had been no wood for fires and many of the tributes had died huddling on the ground during the night where you could hardly see them. It had not provided much entertainment for the bloodlust of King’s Landing and ever since then there had always been wood provided for fires.

“You’re good at hunting, Jon, you can do this. Just don’t let that soft heart of yours interfere.”

He scowled at her. “It’s not _soft hearted_ not to want to kill someone. The other tributes are not animals,” he said emphatically. “It’s not like hunting down a deer.”

“You know nothing, Jon Snow, because it could be,” Ygritte said grimly and she had a point.

If he didn’t think about it then perhaps he could kill the other contestants. He shuddered at the thought.

The door opened then and the Peacekeepers returned. Ygritte looked desperately at him before she wrapped him in a fierce hug.

“Look after them for me,” Jon said anxiously.

“I will.” She said. “You don’t need to worry about them, you just need to come home.”

Then that was it. There was no more time for any more visitors and Jon was being led from the Justice Building into a car towards the train station where hordes of journalists stood on the platform, their cameras trained upon the North’s tributes. Jon was grateful that he hadn’t succumbed to any tears during his time in the Justice Building. He wouldn’t have wanted the cameras to pick up on them. Keen to appear in control, Jon put on a distant facial expression. It wasn’t a hard thing for someone from the Gift to do and he was happy to note when he looked up at one of the screens that while he looked rather sullen, he did not look scared.

The same could not be said of Sansa Stark, who had obviously been crying. He wondered if it was going to be her strategy for the Games: appear weak. Those tactics had worked for a small thin girl from the Iron Isles a few years ago. Asha Greyjoy had seemed harmless and cowardly. She had remained out of the way and not been targeted by the other tributes until they were down to the last few contestants. Then her true nature had come out and she’d wielded twin axes with a skill and competence that had won her the Games. It had been terrifying.

Jon didn’t think Sansa Stark had that kind of cold bloodedness in her nature. She was sweet and kind and he was sure that she didn’t have any deadly weapon skills. A girl from Winter Town wouldn’t need them.

After pausing briefly for final media shots, Jon and Sansa were led onto the train. It was one of the fast bullet trains that would take him to King’s Landing in just under twenty-four hours.

Myranda Royce led him to a cabin that was plusher than anything he had ever seen and left him there after telling him that dinner was in an hour. It had thick carpets, a closet full of clothes still in their wrappings, and a private bathroom with both hot and cold running water. There was no running hot water in the Gift. If you wanted some then you had to boil it so the first thing Jon did was strip off his father’s old slacks and shirt, and jump in the shower. He had never had one before and it felt like getting caught in a rainstorm in the forest, only warmer. He revelled in the heat for a long time before getting out and dressing in a black shirt and trousers from the choice in the closet. They were the softest clothes he had ever worn and he couldn’t help but smooth his hand down them several times.

He was about to leave his cabin when he remembered Wylla’s badge. He took it from the pocket in his old trousers and rubbed it on his new shirt, gazing down at it. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. A silver snarling direwolf’s head enclosed in a circle of silver.

Jon wondered if Sansa would be miffed when she saw it pinned on him. Direwolves were closely associated with Starks, who had once ruled over the North before becoming closely entwined with the defeated rebel forces. They had been removed from power by the victorious King’s Landing and in every generation of Starks at least one was ‘chosen’ to go to the Games. Ygritte reckoned it was a warning to the Stark family to never become involved in raising the North again. In Eddard Stark’s generation both of his brothers had been reaped, leaving him as the only Stark. Sansa was the first of his children to go despite Robb being odds on favourite with the unsavoury types who liked to bet on such things.

 _Should I give her the badge?_ Jon asked himself but it felt like it would be a betrayal of Wylla to do that despite the direwolf being a Stark symbol. Wylla had given it to him and he would wear it for the friend he had never really realised he had.

Besides, his mother had Stark connections so it’s not as if he didn’t have some claim to the symbol himself.

Slipping it into the pockets of his new trousers, Jon made his way the dining car, where both Myranda Royce and Sansa already sat.

The seat next to Sansa was open so Jon slid into it.

The table was set with silverware that was a far cry from the broken and chipped plates he ate off every day in the Gift. It was all very overwhelming to be honest. There appeared to be an abundance of knives and forks that he couldn’t understand. Why would you need more than one set?

The doors swung open then and King’s Landing attendants appeared with trays of dishes with more food than Jon had ever seen in his life. Even someone as fairly privileged as Sansa Stark was in the North looked stunned at the dishes being set before them. There was a platter of honey-glazed chickens, minced meat with peppers, little fishes fried in salt, greens dressed with apple and pinenuts, peas and onions and several different kinds of bread. The savoury smells made Jon’s stomach rumble and he dug in, spooning several dishes onto his plate. Shrugging a little at the cutlery, he decided to use the set closest to him. It was bigger and you could fit more onto the fork.

Silence reigned for a long while, only the sounds of cutlery scraping across plates could be heard. Jon looked up and saw that Myranda Royce watched them both eat with an approving expression, whilst she ate her way daintily through a salad (using the knife and fork furthest from her, he noted).

“Well, at least the pair of you are civilised when you eat. The tributes from last year ate with their hands. It was enough to turn my stomach.”

Last year’s tributes had been from the Gift. They were probably as overwhelmed as Jon had been at the food set in front of them, but he doubted they would’ve have had table manners drummed into them the same way Lyanna had taught him and Bran.

Lyanna’s mother had been a Stark, Lyarra, who had married down into the Gift. She had brought her children up with the manners she’d learnt in Winter Town and Lyanna in turn had done the same for her children. Not many in the Gift would’ve had the same upbringing and might well have reacted to seeing that much available food to eating with their hands. It wasn’t their fault when faced with such amounts of food after being half-starved their whole lives.

Irritated by Myranda’s harsh words about last year’s tributes, Jon dropped his knife and fork onto the table and scooped up some mince lamb with his fingers and stuffed the handful messily into his mouth. He proceeded to eat the rest of his dinner that way much to Myranda Royce’s disgust.

Any expectation Jon had that Sansa would be prissy about table manners evaporated with the giggle she gave as Myranda Royce pushed away from the table. He shot her a look out the corner of his eye to see that she was watching him in amusement.

He wanted to smile back at her but his stomach chose that moment to roll nauseously at being stuffed so full of the rich food. His hand flew to his mouth as he got to his feet to follow Myranda Royce out of the dining car and through to wherever she was ushering them to next.

It was another luxuriously upholstered car. This time with soft comfortable sofas and shining wooden tables. Tea, coffee and little lemon cakes were brought in as the recap of the reapings started up. Jon didn’t have any desire to watch Bran’s name being called out again, but he wasn’t sure Myranda Royce was giving them much choice in the matter and he supposed it was opportunity to see their competition.

The very thought of that word made his stomach heave a little at the realisation that his potential killer was among those on the screen.

The reapings were staggered throughout the day so that each one could be streamed live and you could, in theory, watch them all. Of course, the only people who were able or wanted to do that were the citizens of King’s Landing.

The recap was a blur of faces. The career regions had swaggering volunteers who strode from the crowd with smirks on their face. An obnoxious looking blond from the Westerlands stood out – Jon hadn’t even met him and already he wanted to punch him.

 _Maybe this will be easier than your think_ , a voice in his head said, and Jon shuddered at the implication.

There was a ruthless looking brunette from the Reach who appeared at first glance to be doe eyed and sweet but carried herself as if she possessed thorns. A clever looking girl from Dorne was reaped and a pretty boy from the Vale. However, it wasn’t until they reached the Stormlands that anger at the injustice bubbled up in his stomach. A young girl of twelve was reaped. She was small and thin with the remnants of Greyscale covering one side of her face and she visibly trembled. The crowd murmured unhappily as she stood there looking far too young to be reaped.

She reminded Jon of Bran and his heart sank. There was no way he would be able to kill her.     

Then it was the North’s turn. Jon flinched as Bran’s name was called once more. Then he was there volunteering and sounding desperate. The commentators lapped it all up, crowing gleefully over stats that revealed that the North had only ever had one volunteer before, fifty-seven years before. However, they were baffled when the crowd refused to applaud Jon, condescendingly putting it down to the North’s difference to the rest of Westeros. Then Jorah toppled off stage distracting the presenters who sneered. Jon couldn’t help the snort of amusement that escaped him. It drew Myranda Royce’s attention and she showed no hesitation in showing her disapproval.

“Well, I’m glad you think it’s funny! That man is your lifeline once you are in the arena. I’m sure his antics won’t be so entertaining when you need him to drum up sponsors for you.”

Jon dropped his eyes to the floor. She must not have seen the way the Mayor had tripped him but she was also right. He would need Jorah when he went into the arena, but the likelihood of the victor being interested and up to the task wasn’t very high.

Almost as if sensing his name, Jorah walked into the room. He had the same clothes that he had worn earlier that day and he registered no interest in either of his latest tributes.

“I think I have concussion,” he said to no one in particular as his face turned a tinge of green and he vomited all over the floor.

Myranda Royce looked revolted. “Good luck getting sponsors with a mentor as interested as that,” she said, nudging Jorah the toe of her stilettos before she swept out of the room.

The stench of the vomit was overpowering and Jon saw Sansa curl into herself before she took a deep breath and turned towards Jon.

“I guess we better move him,” she said.

Jon hadn’t thought of doing such a thing and didn’t really fancy carting their mentor back to his cabin but Myranda Royce was right – they did need Jorah and so leaving him to the King’s Landing attendants didn’t seem like the best thing to do.

“Yeah,” Jon said.

Together they managed to heave Jorah up who came to as they got him on his feet.

“Ugh,” he slurred as he wiped his face with his sleeve. “I made a bit of a mess.”

Jon rolled his eyes at that but took the brunt of the man’s weight as he and Sansa steered their mentor back to his cabin.

Once they were in Jorah’s enjoining bathroom, Sansa eyed him warily.

“I can take it from here,” Jon said.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’ll just strip him and stick him the shower.”

“Do you want me to get some of the attendants to do that instead?”

“No, I can do it.”

She hesitated as if unsure to leave before giving him a small smile and ducking back out the door.

Jon wondered why he was taking it upon himself to look after Jorah. He didn’t particularly care too much about the man and it wasn’t as if he would curry any favour doing this because if Jorah did have concussion (and that was likely with the blow to the head he’d taken that day) then there was no way he would remember it in the morning.

Perhaps he was finishing the job that Sansa had started because her kindness in even thinking about helping Jorah had made him feel a little ashamed at his indifference to the man.

 _But that was Sansa all round_ , he thought as he finished stripping the vomit soaked clothes off Jorah and turned the shower on. He would know all about her kindness.

The first few months after his father had died and his mother had retreated to her bed, Jon had struggled to keep them alive. The little money that his parents had painstaking saved had disappeared and one rainy day Jon had found himself wandering Winter Town, weak from starvation. He found himself round the back of the bakery, drinking in the yeasty smells that wafted from the building, almost as if he could fill his stomach on smells alone. He had then decided to raid the bins in the hope that there would be something edible for him to bring home to Bran.

It was during his rummaging that the backdoor had opened and Sansa Stark had stepped out. She had stopped as she saw him and Jon had flushed with embarrassment at being caught. He had automatically backed away, stumbling and sliding down a tree to rest weakly at the bottom.

Sansa had disappeared back inside where he could hear the sounds of clattering. Leaning his head back against the tree, Jon had turned his face up to the rain feeling utterly defeated. It was then that Sansa had returned, slowly coming towards him before she had stopped a few metres away.

“These loaves are burnt,” she had said, holding out two large loaves of bread that had were perfect except for a black rim around their bottom. “We won’t be able to sell them and I’d rather give them to you than the pigs.”

Not giving him a chance to say anything, she had darted forward laying them on his lap before she had rushed back into the bakery.

Jon had stared at the two loaves for a couple of seconds before he’d quickly stood up, his head swimming at the effort, stuffed the loaves inside his coat and had made his way as fast as he could back home to the Gift.

Bran had reached out to grab the bread when he placed them on the table before Jon had gently pushed his hands away and reached for the bread knife. He’d cut several thick slices and they had both gorged on the bread. It had been sweet and wholesome, filled with nuts and dried fruit and it had been the best thing he had ever tasted.

The next day at school, Sansa had acted as if nothing had happened – not even looking at him as she passed him in the corridor.

But her actions had saved Jon and his family. The food had given him the clarity and courage to jump the fence and hunt in the woods that day after school. He had managed to bag a rabbit almost by accident and had gathered some greens. The resulting meaty stew had even drawn his mother out of bed and by the end of the week, Jon had set about hunting and gathering what he could to keep his family from starvation.

As he got better at hunting, teaming up with Ygritte, he had even shot enough to trade in Mole Town or to the merchants in Winter Town and luckily they had never come so close to starving again.

As Jon heaved Jorah out of the shower, dried him and rolled him into his bed naked, Jon reflected on how much he owed Sansa. It left an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. Why did she have to be reaped alongside him?

He tried to shrug off the unease of going into the arena with her off – one of the other tributes would probably kill her before he would have to.

But he decided that he needed to keep his distance. It was hard to have a big heart when you were struggling to survive in the Gift so it was rare that Jon met anyone who was unfailing kind, but he recognised that quality in Sansa and he knew he could become attached if he allowed himself.

The next morning, Jon awoke to the sound of Myranda Royce chirping “Up, up up! Today’s a big big big day.”

He wished he could roll over and ignore her but anxiety pooled in his stomach. Today his predicament felt so much more real.

Pulling on the same clothes that he had worn yesterday, Jon made his way to the dining car. Myranda passed him, a cup of coffee in her hand and muttering about something. He wrinkled his nose up at the bitter smell. It was an expensive luxury in the North and he had only tried it on a few occasions. He hadn’t cared for the taste.

Sansa and Jorah were already seated at the table. Jon slid into the seat next to Sansa once more and a large platter of fried potatoes, sausages and eggs was placed in front of him. There was more coffee on the table as well as a glass of what Jon thought was orange juice. He couldn’t be sure as he had only tasted it once when his father had killed a deer and sold off large parts in Mole Town for good money.

“This is good,” Sansa said, waving a cup of something cool and milky under his nose. “It’s called iced honey milk.”

Jon took the cup from her with muttered thanks and he quickly gulped a mouthful down. It was rich, sweet and creamy and Jon didn’t hesitate in finishing the rest of the glass off before he dug into the rest of the food.

Once he had eaten his fill, he leaned back in his chair and observed Jorah who sat opposite him calmly working his way through a plate full of food. He hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge Jon yet.

“Aren’t you meant to be doing something useful like getting us sponsors or teaching us about the Games?” he asked combatively.

Jorah lifted his head from the dregs off his cup of coffee and speared him a look. “You want some advice? Okay, here’s some: try and stay alive.”

He laughed wildly at his own joke and Jon was filled with hatred for the mentor.

“Is that meant to be funny?” Sansa asked, her voice cold and cutting. “Because it isn’t for us.”

She was obviously angry because her hand darted out and swept Jorah’s newly filled cup onto the floor.

Jorah jumped at that, his face morphing into a scowl as he leant forward menacingly, his hand out. Jon, concerned that the older man would hit Sansa, stuck his knife in between the fingers of Jorah’s hand that rested on the table, propping him up as he loomed over Sansa.

Jorah turned angry eyes on Jon, his free hand turning and whacking him with a blow to the jaw that had Jon reeling backwards into his chair. Sansa leapt up, took her plate and smashed it over Jorah’s head.

The three of them did nothing for a long moment accept look at each other in shock at how the situation had just escalated. Then Jorah sized them both up with an appreciative gleam in his eye. “Looks like I’ve got myself a couple of fighters this year.”

He slumped back into his chair and continued to observe them both. Sansa hovered a little uncertain of what to do next whilst Jon scooped up a handful of ice that he was about to press to the throbbing spot on his jaw.

“Don’t do that,” Jorah said. “Let it bruise. It’ll look as if you’ve been mixing it up with some of the other tributes. The viewers will take notice of that and like it. It makes you look a little dangerous.”

“But it’s illegal to fight with other tributes before the Games start.”

“Only if you get caught,” Jorah said.

“You have any other pearls of wisdom to share?” Sansa asked in a scathing tone.

“Yeah, but that can wait for later. We’ll arrive in King’s Landing in a few moments but I’ll make you both a deal. You do as and your stylists say then I’ll mentor you properly and get you sponsors.”

“Deal,” Sansa shot back quickly without even waiting for Jon’s input.

Not that he had much input to give. This was better than he thought they’d get with Jorah.

Jorah nodded and said, “Get yourself to the windows then, you’re about to see King’s Landing.”

Jon couldn’t help but rush over to one of the windows, his nose pressed up to the glass as King’s Landing came into sight. He gasped silently as the Red Keep came into view. It was a large red stone fortress that sat on top of one of the many hills that King’s Landing was built upon and it was the most magnificent thing he had seen.

However, Jon drew away from the window when he saw the crowds of people who stopped and flocked to the train as they recognised it as one of the tribute trains. But Sansa didn’t. She remained at the window, smiling and waving to the crowds below and Jon found himself questioning her motives.

Her supportive squeeze as they’d shook hands in Torrhen’s square, her desire to help Jorah and then her anger with him this morning. Despite her appearance yesterday when they boarded the train, she hadn’t resigned herself to death. She was fighting and if she was fighting then it meant she was preparing to kill him.

Jon frowned as he thought this. The need to keep his distance from her flooded into his mind once more. He couldn’t afford to underestimate anyone.

Not if he wanted to make it home to Bran.


	2. King's Landing

The first stop for all tributes when entering King’s Landing was the Great Sept, an old building that was said once to be a place of worship.

 _Perhaps it still is a place of worship_ , Jon thought. _Now it’s just a different type of worship – the worship of the Hunger Games that King’s Landing loves so much._

Jon had been there for three hours already and his body was tingling and sore by the time his prep team had finally finished with him. They had scraped his skin red raw, thinned out the hair across his body (to something _manageable_ , Guyard had whispered conspiratorially to him, a silly vacuous smile on his face) and buffed his nails until they shined.

The only thing the team had left untouched was Jon’s beard, which he had grown two years earlier and always kept trimmed close to his cheeks in the style of his father. He was surprised that he hadn’t been completely waxed until not a single hair remained except that which resided on his head. Tributes were usually presented as squeaky clean.

Parman, whose body appeared to have been dyed a pale purple, nodded his approval as they circled Jon like vultures once they seemed to have finished with him. “Good, good,” he said before adding, “You actually look presentable now.”

Jon felt the resentment begin to rise. There was nothing wrong with how he had looked before. In fact, if you had given Jon the choice of looking like a citizen of King’s Landing, with all the cosmetic surgery enhancements, ridiculous implants and silly clothes, or how he usually looked hunting in the woods, Jon would choose his Northern garments every time. They might have been shoddy and worn but at least he didn’t feel like a fool in them.

But Jon said nothing, just nodding a little at his prep team and expressing his gratitude for their help. They were all smiles now and he wasn’t sure if it was because of his words or a job well done.

“We’ll get Renly,” Emmon said as the three of them back out of the room, still smiling widely.

Jon remained standing in the room, unsure of what to do next. He hadn’t laid eyes on his stylist yet which he put down to his stylist being completely uninterested in a tribute from the North. He debated on whether he should put on the robe that remained, flung over the back of a chair. It would make him feel less like a piece of meat if he had some clothes on but he decided against it. No doubt his stylist would just make him remove it again.

The door opened once more and Jon found himself encountering the most normal person he had laid eyes on since leaving the North. The stylist was nothing like his prep team, who all seemed to have some kind of colour code. Parman had dyed his skin purple, Guyard had hair which was the most startling shade of green, and Emmon had dressed himself head to foot in brilliant yellow. Renly appeared very ordinary in comparison. He wore simple but stylish clothes of green and wore his black hair long but neatly combed. There was nothing overly flamboyant about him – certainly not by King’s Landing standards – except for the line of green eyeliner which made his brilliant blue eyes stand out even more.

“Hello, Jon,” he said in a friendly manner. “I’m your stylist Renly.”

Jon didn’t say anything as Renly circled around him, looking at him from all angles. “Good,” he said. “Please don your robe once more and we’ll have lunch and talk.”

Jon did as he was asked and followed Renly out into another room that was empty except for a pair of sofas that faced each other across a low coffee table. There was a remote placed on the arm of one sofa and Renly pressed a button and a few seconds later, food had been placed on the table. There was a large steaming bowl of mutton stewed in almond milk with carrots, raisins and onions and a bowl of fluffy white rice next to it. Jon’s mouth began to water at the delicious smell and he heaped a serving on plate and began to eat.

“Nice, huh?” Renly asked.

He nodded, his cheeks bulging like some small rodent as he crammed as much as he could into his mouth. His mother would be horrified, but even if he did return to the North victorious, he would never eat food like this there.

Finally satiated, Jon leaned back against the sofa and eyed Renly curiously and wondered just what kind of stylist they had been landed with this year. Jon had never seen Renly before. The majority of the stylists stayed with the Hunger Games for a long time and some had been around for as long as Jon could remember.

“Is this your first Games?” he asked.

“Yes,” Renly said.

“And you got landed with the North,” Jon stated, knowing that newbies were generally forced to do a couple of years dressing Northern tributes.

“I asked for the North.”

Renly’s response took Jon aback. No one asked for the North. It was deemed even more backwards than Dorne. A land filled with barbaric people who didn’t know how to behave properly. Usually anyone assigned to the North couldn’t wait to move on to a region with a lot more potential – where they could really show off their talents.

It was the stylists’ job to create a memorable look for the tributes for their presentation to King’s Landing and the President that evening. The tributes were dressed to represent something from their region and the North always suffered because they exported nothing glamorous nor had an interesting enough culture for the rest of Westeros. Mining was the North’s main contribution to Westeros and, because of this, its tributes were usually dressed in some form of miner’s outfit. Boring and totally unremarkable, except for the one year that the stylists had decided that the North’s tributes should be completely naked and covered in coal dust. Jon prayed this wouldn’t happen this year.

“Now, usually those from your region are dressed in some form of miner’s outfit but this year I have no plans to go down that route. It’s tired and it’s boring. No instead I plan to emphasise a different aspect of the North.”

 _Great,_ Jon thought. _Its coal and I am going to be naked in front of the whole country._

Almost as if Renly could read his mind, he shook his head slightly with a smug little smile. “Not what you are thinking. I want to emphasise the history of the North. It is why I decided to keep your beard against usual Games protocol. It keeps you recognisable from the reaping but also gives you a distinct Northern look. It’s very nicely trimmed by the way.”

“My father taught me,” Jon murmured distractedly. He was puzzled by what Renly meant. The _history_ of the North. But surely that would not be allowed especially when a Stark had been reaped. The Starks pretty much were the history of the North.

“I hope you don’t mind a little ice,” Renly said.

Jon’s stomach dropped. Was he going to be encased in ice or something?

Thankfully Renly’s words turned out to be a little misleading. Whilst the prep team had prepared him for the presentation, Jon had worried that he was going to be going into the arena with some form of frostbite, but it turned out that Renly – and Sansa’s stylist, Arianne – had developed some sort of crystal ice substitute. When applied it looked just like ice.

Jon jolted when he saw himself in the mirror that Renly unveiled. He was dressed in vaguely historical Northern clothes of all black including a thick black cloak which had all been sprayed with this fake ice, making it look as if he had just stepped out of a freezer. His face hadn’t gotten off lightly either. Small icicles hung from his beard, and his skin glistened in the lights as if there was a thin layer of ice over him. A headdress glinted on top of his curls and as Jon looked more closely he could see that it resembled a simple crown, a circlet of bronze coloured metal with black spikes that resembled swords.

It was startling and would garner him much more attention than some skimpy version of miner’s overalls and a hat with a headlamp attached.

Renly nodded his head and looked pleased at his achievement before he led Jon down to the basement of the Great Sept where the chariots would leave to drive through King’s Landing before finishing at the Red Keep.

He stepped onto the chariot as Sansa arrived and Jon blinked at the vision she made. Whilst he was dressed in black, she was a vision in white – like ice itself except for her eyes which were an even more piercing blue than usual as her skin had been leeched of any colour, appearing impossibly white, and he wondered if she would be cold to touch. Her copper coloured hair shone under the lights and had a fine sheen of the false ice sprayed over it making it seem as if she had just risen from a snow drift.

 _Winter is coming_ , Jon thought.

Sansa, too, wore a small crown that matched his own, and despite their contrasting clothes, it was obvious they were together.

Arianne helped her up onto the chariot and Renly looked proud at the end result.

“Behold the King and Queen of Winter!” he exclaimed.

Their chariot then began to move out, the last, as usual, in the procession. Renly shouted something to them that got lost in the noise of the wheels and horse’s hooves.

“What did he say?” Jon asked.

“I think he told us to hold hands,” Sansa replied, holding hers out for him to clasp.

He wasn’t sure that it was a good idea. Sansa was sweet and kind and he was meant to be keeping his distance because they would be going into the arena in less than a week where they would be enemies. However, she gave him a speculative look and he found himself clutching her hand and finding himself relieved that it wasn’t as cold as it looked.

 As soon as the crowds lining the streets of King’s Landing got a glimpse of them there were shouts of “The North! The North!” and suddenly all attention was on them.

The scrutiny of so many people had Jon’s eyes widening and his hand tightened on Sansa’s, gripping it as if it were a lifeline.

He could see her in the periphery of his vision and she was lapping up the attention, smiling and blowing kisses to the crowd with a wide breath-taking smile on face. Someone threw a red rose towards her which she caught deftly with one hand and sniffed at. Jon, aware that he must appear stiff and awkward next to her, curled his lips up into a small smile and lifted a hand to wave.

Aware of just how much he must be crushing Sansa’s small hand, he went to release it.

“Don’t you dare let go,” she whispered out the side of her mouth. “I am afraid I will fall out of this thing if you do.”

That made a more natural smile appear on his face as he looked down at her before he quickly turned his attention back to the crowds.

The procession passed in a blur of warm sweaty hands, camera flashes and blurry faces and it wasn’t long before they were lined up in a semi-circle in the outer yard of the Red Keep. The President stood on a large balcony that jutted out from the Throne Room of the old kings of yore.

President Aerys Targaryen cut a vivid figure on the balcony. He was incredibly gaunt and dressed in black and red. He had long silvery blond hair and beard and he watched the chariots roll in with an intense gaze that made Jon shiver.

As the president began his speech about the glory of the Games, Jon allowed his eyes to wander. The large screens that beamed the live coverage of the parade throughout Westeros used this part of the procession to show close ups of the all the tributes, but Jon noticed that he and Sansa had gained rather more airtime than any of the other tributes. They really stood out with how they glinted magically under the lights of the King’s Landing.

The camera also kept flashing to where Jon and Sansa’s hands were linked and as he observed the other tributes he could see how different this act of unity was. The other tributes stood uneasily next to each other on the chariots. They ignored the presence of their regional partner because that’s what the Hunger Games were designed to do – make you think as an individual rather than collaboratively. Unity in the regions was dangerous for King’s Landing after all.

Once the parade had finished, the chariots took the tributes away to the Dragonpit, which sat atop Rhaenys’ Hill. It would be their home/training centre/prison for the next few days. They drew up in the cavernous remnants of the historic old building and dismounted. A state of the art modern tower sprung up in the middle of complex and was known in the city as the Tower of the Tributes.

Jorah and Myranda were waiting for them and Jon could see the smile that spread across Myranda’s face from quite a distance away.

“There they are, there they are!” she gushed as they stopped next to them.

They must have made quite an impression because even Jorah had lost the disinterest that habitually resided on his face. There was a gleam in his eyes and he gave Jon a small nod before he helped Sansa down.

The other tributes sent angry glares their way. Not even the Westerlands tributes decked out in gold and emeralds or the pair from the Reach who appeared to be wearing clothes made solely from rose petals could compete.

Jon could not help the proud feeling he developed. Renly and Arianne had found a way for him and Sansa to stand out and he became even more determined to follow Jorah’s advice and place himself in the hands of his stylist. Renly obviously knew what he was doing.

However, there was no stopping to reflect more on this as Myranda was leading the way to a bank of lifts that would take them to their living quarters, which were divided geographically. This meant that the North had the top apartment, probably the only time that the North had had anything nicer than the other regions.

Jon could not help but gape as they entered. The living room itself could have held his entire house. It was furnished even more luxuriously than the train had been. Myranda led them through the large room and out to the corridor at the back where they would sleep.

Once in his room, Jon stripped his clothes off and jumped under the shower. He randomly pressed a combination of buttons as the control panel had over hundred and he was not going to waste time working out what they all were. It took some determined scrubbing to get rid of the crystal ice but he finally managed it.

He came out smelling strongly of lemons but clean.

In the dining room, he was glad to see that Renly, Arianne and the prep teams were staying for dinner. Hopefully with their presence, Jorah and Myranda would behave themselves.

Sansa was there, too, and Jon found himself happy to note that her skin was back to a healthier colour. The extreme whiteness of her skin had been unsettling – almost as if she was a corpse already. Now, the soft rose tint was back in her cheeks and he was grateful for it.

As he sat, Jon found a small boy with large ears standing next to him, sliding dishes onto the table. He looked vaguely familiar and Jon struggled to place him.

“I know you!” he blurted out and the boy’s eyes widened in alarm.

The table went silent and everyone stared at him.

“Don’t be silly, Jon,” Myranda scolded. “How could you know him? He’s a crow.”

“A crow? What’s a crow?”

Jorah gave him a calculating look. “A member of the Night’s Watch. They are guilty of crimes such as treason. They have their tongues removed and work for King’s Landing as punishment.”

As soon as Jorah said the word treason, Jon knew where he’d seen the boy before. It was about a year ago, he and Ygritte had been out hunting in the woods when suddenly the animals had fallen silent and from their hiding place, Jon and Ygritte had seen a boy and girl run into the clearing they were observing. They had scratches on their faces, arms and legs, and their clothes were torn. They had looked around anxiously with red-rimmed sleep-deprived eyes but before they could find any cover, a hovercraft with the King’s Landing seal was above them. The diminutive boy had been trapped in a net whilst the girl was impaled with a large spear.

Jon and Ygritte had covered their mouths in horror as the couple were beamed up into the hovercraft.

Luckily, Jon and Ygritte had been hidden well within the undergrowth so the hovercraft hadn’t spotted them. However, the boy had. Just before the hovercraft had arrived, he had locked eyes with Jon and mouthed for help. Jon hadn’t moved and shamed filled him as he looked at the boy now. How he must hate him.

“Smalljon Umber,” Sansa said suddenly and Jon stared at her confused. “He looks like Smalljon Umber. I’ve been trying to place him, too, and he looks like Smalljon. ”

She caught his gaze and held it, her eyes boring into him with a warning to go along with her comments.

The crow didn’t look anything like Smalljon who was practically a giant, with a loud guffawing laugh and who was larger than life. You couldn’t forget Smalljon’s presence in a hurry.

“Oh, yeah. Smalljon,” Jon muttered quietly, not daring to look back at the undersized boy in case there was reproach in his eyes at how he had let King’s Landing take him.

The tension left the room and the meal carried on unabated. Jon put his head down and let the conversation wash over him. He couldn’t concentrate on what the others were saying and his stomach rolled unpleasantly with each mouthful he made himself swallow.

When he finally escaped the table and headed back to his room, he found Sansa waiting for him outside of it.

“Uncanny how much that kid looked like Smalljon, wasn’t it?” she said.

“Weird,” he agreed and looked at her curiously.

He guessed he did owe her an explanation as her interjection had saved himself from having to answer some really uncomfortable questions. He would never have been able to come up with such a lie so quickly or convincingly either.

“Has Renly shown you the roof garden?” she asked.

Jon shook his head.

“C’mon. I’ll show you where it is. You’ll like it; it’s really pretty.”

Pretty wasn’t something that usually registered on Jon’s consciousness but he thought that it would be something that would spike Sansa’s interest. She was the kind of person who should be surrounded by pretty things and not stuck in the desolation of the North.

_Where did that come from?_

He mentally chastised himself. He couldn’t afford to get attached to anyone and he could definitely see himself growing fond of Sansa. She had already shown him kindness both here and back in the North and her eyes sparkled beautifully when she genuinely smiled.

“It’s pretty windy up here,” she said as they walked out on the roof. She let out a little laugh before she said, “So it can be hard to hear each other at times. Renly had to practically shout at me earlier.”

He looked over the roof, it was a good place to come to talk if the way the wind howled around the building was anything to go by. There was some kind of garden over to one side, complete with seating area but he didn’t walk over to it. Instead, he leaned over the side.

“What’s to stop you from jumping off?” he asked.

Sansa stuck her hand out and her arm was flung back. “Force field. You jump and you’ll land straight back on the roof. Can’t have your tributes dying before they’ve reached the arena.”

He gave a small smile at that even if it wasn’t funny.

“So you going to explain how you knew that crow?”

Eyeing her, Jon decided that she deserved to know the truth. “I saw him in the woods in the North just over a year ago. Ygritte and I had jumped the fence to go hunting and we came across him. He was with girl and they were running. To where I don’t know. I watched as the King’s Landing hovercraft picked them up. He called out for help but I just sat there and watched.”

He looked away from her as he said that, the shame of his inaction causing his head to fall down as he kicked at the concrete with his right foot.

The touch of her soft hand on his arm had him raising his head. She squeezed his arm gently and said, “There was nothing you could have done, Jon. If you had tried to help then they would have just caught you too.”

There was understanding in her eyes and a small smile on her lips and he knew she was being genuine. He had to fight hard to remind himself that they were enemies and that she was fighting for her life just as much as he was.

He gave her a little nod before he said, “We better get downstairs. We don’t want to be tired for Training tomorrow.”

A flash of disappointment crossed her face quickly before she removed her hand off his arm and lead the way back downstairs. She waved her hand briefly at him before she disappeared into her room. He suppressed any sadness he felt at her dismissal of him. He couldn’t afford to get attached. He had to work to get himself home for Bran.

When Jon got out of the shower the next morning, an outfit had been laid out on his bed for him. It was a pair of black trousers in a lightweight material with a tight burgundy t-shirt. It was probably the most comfortable thing he had worn since he’d been out hunting with Ygritte.

Jorah and Sansa were already at the table when he arrived for breakfast. Jon saw that the together theme was continuing as he and Sansa were dressed in matching outfits. He couldn’t understand the point of continuing the tactic past the parade – creating a bond between them was only going to make it harder once they got into the arena.

As Jon slid into his seat, Jorah pushed away the boiled goose eggs and black bread he was eating and poured himself a large cup of coffee.

“I need to know what you’re good at, Snow. What skills you have for the arena,” he said with no good morning preamble. “Same with you, Sansa.”

Sansa’s face paled at the question and Jon could have hit Jorah at how blunt he had made that question. Yeah, he probably did need to know he could train them adequately but he could eased them into the question a little more.

At Jorah’s questioning look, Jon just shrugged.

“He’s good with a bow and arrow,” Sansa said softly. “Excellent really. My father always buys game from him because it is so cleanly killed.”

Jorah nodded at that, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Pretty handy with a knife from what I remember from the train journey here.”

Flushing, Jon said testily, “I can hunt but it’s nothing compared to the Careers down there. Besides, I’m not nearly as good as Ygritte is with a bow.”

For some reason, Sansa’s face dropped at that remark but before Jon could try and figure out why, Jorah was talking again.

“Well, you might use it for hunting animals but it’s not that much different out in the arena,” he said grimly.

Both Jon and Sansa shivered at that.

 _It might be Sansa who I have to hunt down,_ Jon thought before he pushed the thought away. There was plenty of time before he had to think about such morbid things.

“Who’s Ygritte,” Jorah asked, sipping at his coffee and seemingly unaware of how his previous words had affected his tributes.

“My friend,” Jon said. “We go out hunting together.”

“Girlfriend?” Jorah asked with an inexplicable frown.

“No, just a friend,” he said emphatically fed up of the insinuations that always followed his friendship with Ygritte around. It didn’t seem to matter that she was dating Tormund, people always assumed that she and Jon were together.

“Oh,” he said before turning his attention to Sansa. “What about you, sweetling? Got any hidden skills?”

Sansa had let a curtain of hair fall between her and Jon and he found himself angry with Jorah for the second time in a short space of time.

“Only if you count sewing,” she said dejectedly.

“That’s a useful skill,” Jon said insistently.

Sansa made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. “Yeah, if you need a new dress when in the arena.”

“What about if you get hurt. You could sew yourself up or make a tent out of some material.”

“Because sewing kits are going to be all the rage in the cornucopia,” she said dismissively.

“She’s selling herself short,” Jon said addressing himself to Jorah. “She’s resourceful according the merchants of Winter Town _and_ diplomatic. I once heard her brother say that no one could manipulate a situation like Sansa can.”

She turned on him then. “Oh, _I’m_ the one selling myself short. You’re some survival and hunting expert who could live in the wilderness with ease, but apparently my ability to stretch a household budget and sweet-talk some merchants into discounting their wares is going to be _super_ handy when facing a bunch of careers who want to gut me with a sword.”

Jon’s stomach sank at the thought of anyone harming Sansa and he found himself wishing that he’d been reaped with anyone other than Sansa.

Jorah held up a hand then and said, “Whilst I hate to interrupt this, we need to get to the training centre. Now, I want you two to stay with each other at all times. No wandering off or splitting up. Stay away from any archery stations, Snow, and you, sweetling, you keep that persuasive mouth closed for the time being.”

Turning his head away from where he was still glaring at Sansa, Jon gave a brief nod of understanding before stalking from the table and making his way over to the bank of lifts.

Outside of the clothes that Renly had designed so cleverly, Jon did not look nearly as imposing as he had the evening before during the procession and he could see that reflected in the Careers’ eyes as they analysed him in the harsh lights of the training centre and dismissed him as a threat.

Mindful of Jorah’s instructions, Jon listened as the head trainer, Brienne, went through the stations available for them to sample. She was a hulking lady with homely features that were somehow lifted by her bright blue eyes.  When she released them into the large room, Jon and Sansa both avoided the large weapons station which was immediately taken over by the rowdy pack of careers. Jon watched them out of the corner of his eye as they expertly handled the weapons. The girl from the Reach was flinging sharp little throwing knives into dummies with a precision that was scary. The boy from the Westerlands was fondling a crossbow lovingly.

“Where do you want to go first?” Sansa asked him in a quiet voice.

“How about the snares station?”

She shrugged her shoulders seemingly content to go along with his plans.

They went from station to station, avoiding anything combative. Sansa had fun at the camouflage table, manipulating all and any of the materials laid out into realistic disguises. However, Jon grew restless and gazed around the room. He elbowed Sansa sharply as he saw the boy from the Westerlands watching her with interest.

“Come on,” he said, not liking the way the obnoxious blond eyed her up. “Let’s go and try something else.”

By the time lunchtime drew around, Jon and Sansa had visited all the lesser stations, where the instructors’ eyes lit up at actually having something to do.

Whilst breakfast and dinner was served in each regions’ apartments, lunch was served in a dining hall next door to the training room. Buffets carts were positioned carefully around the room, not allowing the tributes to queue up altogether which would probably have led to blood being spilt. There was one large table in the middle and a series of much smaller tables dotted around the periphery. The Careers migrated to large table, talking loudly as if determined to intimidate everyone else in the room with their confidence. The rest of the tributes sat alone and didn’t make eye contact with anyone else.

“Over here,” Sansa said, pointing to a table with two chairs.

They made desultory conversation with each other, keen to be seen as united as Jorah wanted them to appear.

It was not until the next day after lunch when they were both at the edible plants table that Sansa leaned over to whisper in his ear, “It appears you have a stalker.”

Jon turned his head slightly to see the little girl from the Stormlands watching him. She was peeking out from behind a pillar, her eyes interested in how quickly he was identifying the edible from inedible plants.

She looked even tinier in the training centre and he found himself contrasting her to Bran once more. It wasn’t fair. She looked far too young to be going into the arena and he wanted to shout and rail against those were sending her in to die. She gave him a brief wave which he responded to with an upturn of his lips before she flittered off to the insect station. His gaze followed her unhappily for a couple more seconds.

Training lasted for three days – just three days to try the impossible and bring any skills you may have up to the lifetime training of the Careers. Of course, no region was meant to professionally train children to go into the arena to fight, but this did not stop the Westerlands and the Reach from doing so. They would take the most promising children and train them in combat skills and feed them the best food so they had a large advantage over the semi-starved tributes from poorer regions, who carried the look of malnutrition and stunted growth. Jon was lucky in that his hunting meant that he ate a healthier and more varied diet than many others in the regions, supplementing the poor quality grain from King’s Landing with foraged greens and fresh meat. Most of the tributes with him in the training centre had a hollow look about them.

After the three days of group training under the watchful eye of Brienne, her team and the Gamesmakers, who sat in a balcony above the centre, feasting and drinking as they kept their eye on the tributes below, there was the private training session with only the Gamesmakers present. Each tribute was scored on this session from 1 to 12, and that scored was revealed to the public later that evening in a broadcast. Sponsors could then see who had the potential to go on to do well in the Games. Of course having a high score did not necessarily mean that you went on to win, it usually led to you having a target on your back.

The order of these private training sessions followed Westeros’ geography so once again the North was the last to go in and Jon saw immediately the disadvantage that gave him. The Gamesmakers’ were bored having watched the previous thirteen tributes and were more interested in the food that was lavishly set out in front of them.

He found himself infuriated when he looked up after putting himself through his paces and expertly shooting several dummies, that the Gamesmakers weren’t even paying attention to him. No, they were too busy cooing over a suckling pig that had just been brought in. Losing his temper, Jon nocked a bow and let it fly straight through the Gamesmakers where it imbedded itself in the apple that rested in the pig’s mouth.

Bowing deeply, Jon sarcastically said, “I thank you for your consideration.”

He flung the bow aside and then stalked out of the room, not even bothering to wait to be dismissed.

It was not until he was halfway up the tower in a lift that he realised just what he had done. The adrenalin gave away to scared shock. He had just attacked the Gamesmakers. Of course, he’d had no intention of harming any of them. If he had wanted to do that then the arrows would’ve ended up in their soft flesh and not an apple, but they didn’t know that.

As he entered the North’s apartment, he didn’t bother to stop in the living room, where Sansa sat with Jorah and Myranda Royce. Instead, he dashed headlong into his bedroom, desperately wiping away at the tears that had fallen unbidden down his cheeks. He flung himself onto the bed, face down, and waited for the Peacekeepers to come and arrest him.

However, no-one other than Myranda came. She knocked on the door but promptly went away again after Jon shouted at her. He did nothing but stare out of the window for a good few hours, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting and anxious thoughts.

When he heard the dinner table being laid, he came to the conclusion that nobody was coming to cart him away tonight and so he might as well go out and eat.

He crept out of his room and trod silently into the dining room. Jorah spotted him first and said, “Oh, I see you’ve finally decided to join us, Snow.”

The other heads turned towards him and Sansa gave him a small smile as pulled out the chair opposite to her and sat down.

“Well, I don’t know why you couldn’t come and tell us how your training session went earlier,” Myranda Royce said, pique in her voice at his behaviour.

“Just how badly did it go?” Jorah asked him.

Jon shrugged, trying to put a disinterested air on, and said, “They weren’t interested. I shot some arrows around but they barely even noticed I was in the room. Then I shot an arrow at them.”

Myranda gave a horrified shriek. “You did _what_?”

“I shot an arrow at them,” Jon obediently repeated.

His escort looked scandalised but Jorah burst into laughter. “I bet that gained their attention.”

He couldn’t help the smile that broke out. “It did, yeah.”

“I should think it did,” Myranda scolded. “What were you thinking? You are bound to get a terrible mark now. It’s hard enough to try and sell Northern tributes to sponsors as it is, but with a low score, you can forget about gaining any sponsors at all.”

Jorah rolled his eyes and gave Jon his first approving smile. “You gave them something to think about, anyway.”

“How about you?” he asked Sansa.

“I had the same problem you did. By the time I got in there, they were more interested in eating and drinking than watch me run the assault course or camouflage the room.”

However, they must have been paying some attention to Sansa, because she managed to get a seven when the scores were released that evening. Much to Jon’s shock, he received an eleven. Higher than any other tribute – even the Careers. Jorah smacked him on the back and Myranda wrapped him in a tight hug, any harsh words she had for him earlier than evening forgotten as she murmured that he was a ‘clever, clever boy’ over and over again.

Training for the arena may have finished with the private sessions, but that didn’t mean that training per se had finished. The next day was dedicated to prepping for the interviews that were the last pre-Games programming before they were all thrown into the arena and forced to kill each other. It also wasn’t a surprise that it was the event Jon had been dreading the most (other than the actual Games).

He had woken just before dawn and been incapable of going back to sleep despite how important it was this close to the Games. It was Sunday today, usually his favourite day of the week, but now it was tinged with sadness. Ygritte would most likely be out in the woods, hunting not only for her family but also his. His mother and Bran would be waking up soon to share breakfast. Jon wanted nothing more than to be there with them.

Once the sun had started to peek over the horizon, Jon stripped his covers back and jumped in the shower. Breakfast was probably being served even if it was still early. However, the dining room wasn’t as deserted as he thought it would be. Sansa, Jorah and Myranda were all already there and huddled together, whispering about something. His eyebrows rose at the sight but he did nothing more than sit down and drain a glass of orange juice as a crow came in and laid a platter of honey glazed sausages, soft boiled eggs, crisp fried fish and bowls of steaming porridge in front of him. Ignoring the other three people, Jon dug into the food and waited for their secret meeting to finish.

A few moments later, Jorah sat at the head of the table and made a grab for the pot of coffee. “There’s been a change of plan,” he said looking at Jon. “You’re going to split up today.”

“I thought you were training us together?”

“Sansa has asked to be trained separately.”

Jon’s head swung around to where Sansa sat quietly, eating her way through a bowl of porridge. Had she changed her mind because of his score yesterday? He had significantly out scored her and he knew that she hadn’t given up fighting for her life just yet. Maybe she preferred to try and put some distance between them now. After all, they’d be enemies this time tomorrow.

He shrugged his shoulders and said, “So what’s the new plan?”

“You are going to spend the morning with Myranda and then you’ll be with me after lunch.”

Nodding his head in agreement, Jon turned his attention back to the food. He couldn’t imagine his session with Myranda lasting too long.

Of course he was wrong.

He didn’t know how long he’d been trapped in here with Myranda, but it felt as if he was never going to leave. She insisted on making him walk with books on his head and to sit with his back dead straight with shoulders pushed back and down.

“Your posture is terrible!” she exclaimed for the fifth time. “You absolutely cannot go out walking with your hands in your pockets and your shoulders hunched up. You need to _woo_ the crowd, Jon.”

He muttered uncomplimentary words under his breath as she made him walk with a teetering book on his head once more.

He didn’t think that anything could be worse than his session with Myranda but that was before Jorah got hold of him.

“Do you possess any charm, Snow?” he snapped as yet another angle for the interview failed. “Renly and his team have managed to build excitement around you, but this interview is going to destroy all of that!”

Jon glowered at the other man, his cheeks tinged red with anger and embarrassment at just how bad he was at this.

“Okay, let’s go again. This time try and appear mysterious. That might work in your favour.”

It didn’t.

Jon was straight forward. He took after his mother in this aspect. He wasn’t good at trying to project a different persona.

“The Stark in you is really showing through,” Jorah growled.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jon asked, irritated.

“Just try and do something other than look unfailingly honest and superior to the rest of us. It’s not going to win you any friends in King’s Landing.”

However, there wasn’t much that Jon could do about that. He did detest King’s Landing and those that lived there. They revelled in death and destruction and he could not pretend to admire that.

“Thank goodness Sansa carries the surname only and has all the grace of her mother,” Jorah continued.

Jon was thoroughly dejected by the time Renly came to dress him.

“What’s wrong?” Renly asked.

“I’m going to do really badly in this interview.”

“Why?”

“Because I have zero charm and Jorah says I’m hopeless.”

“Well, Jorah should certainly recognise that when he sees it,” Renly said with a small smile.

Renly’s words failed to cheer him up and he continued to mope as Renly prepared whatever outfit he was due to wear tonight.

“Listen, Jon,” Renly said, sitting next to him and patting his knee. “You dislike King’s Landing and its people. I understand. We must appear disgusting to you, but instead of talking to the audience, how about talking to a friend?”

“I could do that, but who?” He asked. He couldn’t imagine that it would help to pretend he was talking to Bran or Ygritte. That would just make this whole experience even more painful.

“How about me?” Renly said with a smile. “I’ll be in the audience. How about you find me when you are answering a question and pretend that I’m the only one you are talking to.”

That was definitely doable. Renly was probably his favourite person in King’s Landing.

“I can try,” he said.

Renly patted his knee once more before he started the long preparation to get Jon ready for his interview.

Once more, Renly worked his magic on Jon. When he was allowed to look in the mirror, he was amazed at what he saw. He was wearing a wintery grey suit that was all sharp lines and severe tailoring. Along with his beard and long hair it made him look dangerous and somehow wolfish.

Jon stared at Renly with wonder in his eyes, who just nodded his satisfaction at his appearance before he ushered him out to the backstage area where the tributes briefly milled before being led onto the studio set.

Sansa wore a dress the same colour as Jon’s suit. It dripped down her form like a frozen glacier and he was taken aback by how stunning she looked. In his eyes, she overshadowed all the other tributes, including the gorgeous brunette from the Reach.

Once the tributes where on Stage, the host Varys joined them. Varys had been hosting the interviews for the Games for as long as Jon could remember and in all those times, he had not changed his appearance very much which was an anomaly for citizens of King’s Landing. He was bald and effeminate looking and did not appear to age. The only way you could tell he was hosting a different Games each year was by the colour of silk robes he wore because he chose a new colour each year. This year he had chosen a powder blue robe of heavy silk.

 _It was much nicer than the previous year’s floaty crimson robe,_ Jon thought as he walked onto the stage.

Varys was renowned for getting the best of out of the tributes. He could draw the shiest tribute out of their shell, laughed at all the terrible jokes as if they were genuinely funny and managed to make the dullest tributes seem fascinating. He was an excellent mummer and if he made you shine then you would have sponsors lining up.

The other regions’ interviews seemed indeterminable for Jon as each passing minute caused his anxiety to escalate further. The boy from the Westerlands was just as arrogant and obnoxious as he’d been during the group training sessions, but the King’s Landing audience seemed entertained by it. The girl from the Reach, Margaery, was charming and delightful, playing up her pretty looks. The intimidating boy from the Stormlands who was well over 6ft with huge powerful shoulders was both sullen and angry but would still get sponsors purely for his muscled size. If Jon now went up and was as sullen then he would look small and harmless in comparison. Jon could barely watch as little Shireen danced up to the front. She wore a cheerful yellow tulle dress with a delicate tiara in her hair and looked like a little princess. She had Varys smiling a lot and told everyone not to discount her.

Then it was Jon’s turn and he strode down to the front with his heart pounding in his ears and feeling sick with nerves. There was a little frown in between his eyebrows that he could somehow not straighten out no matter how hard he tried.

“Jon Snow,” Varys said in way of a greeting. “You have taken these Games by storm. Just how did you manage that high training score?”

Jon’s mind goes blank for a horrible moment, but then he is seeking out Renly’s face in the crowd and the stylist nods at him and a detached calmness descends.

“I’m not sure if I’m allowed to disclose what happens in those training sessions,” he said honestly.

And he really doesn’t want to tell. If he revealed how much of a fool he made of the Gamesmakers’ then they would make sure he came to a very gruesome end in the arena.

“Oh, come on. You’re amongst friends here,” Varys said with a sly smile towards to the audience who tittered.

“Ah, but then I would be breaking the Games oath to keep those sessions secret and I take oaths very seriously.”

“He would,” One of the Gamesmakers called out.

“Well, we wouldn’t want you to do that,” Varys said. “You come across as a man of your word.”

Jon nodded and then said, “But I can tell you that it was something I’m sure they had never seen before.”

He sent a smile Renly’s way and hoped that it had the desired effect of creating some of kind of rapport with the audience. They chuckled.

Varys gave him some fairly soft questions about his impressions of King’s Landing and Jon managed to keep eye contact with Renly and fixate on some minor aspect of life here and talk about that. It probably wasn’t riveting viewing but it was better than railing at the audience about how awful they were.

“Now, you are the North’s first volunteer for decades and it was your brother you volunteered for. Can you tell us a little about Bran? He was hurt in an accident a few years ago was he not?”

Jon’s face grew serious at the question and instead of focusing on Renly, he let his mind wander to back to the North and his brother. He didn’t want to tell King’s Landing anything about his brother but he didn’t have a choice.

“Yes,” he said seriously. “He was walking to school past by a building that collapsed on top of him. He was paralysed.”

The crowd made a sickeningly sympathetic sound that Jon shut out. His brother was not someone for them to pity. It was their fault he was in such a condition. They left the regions to rot so that buildings could collapse on small kids and then reaped them a couple of years later.

“What did he say to you after you volunteered?”

Jon’s face shuttered as he thought of Bran’s words: _Promise me, Jon_.

“He made me promise to win.”

Varys leaned forward then and the audience appeared to move with him. “And what did you say to that?”

He could feel his face morphing into the expression that Ygritte always laughingly called his ‘direwolf snarl’ and he said fiercely, “I told him I would.”

Varys startled back at the strength in Jon’s words, his smile gone as he said, “I believe you have every chance.”

Then the smarmy smile came back and out he turned to the audience and said, “Jon Snow, everybody, the Winter Wolf!”

Jon was shaking as he returned to his seat. He had got through it. Oh, not with the same panache as the others but he hadn’t done as badly as he feared he might. Sansa was the last interview and he watched, almost detached as she charmed both Varys and the audience. She had such poise and elegance that was matched with an innate ability to make people fall in love with her. She was managing well.

“Now, tell me Sansa, a beautiful and charming girl like you must have a special someone waiting for you back home.”

Sansa coloured up at that letting the audience know that was more to her denial of ‘no’.

“There’s no one you want to go back home for?”

Jon watched mesmerised as she peeped shyly up at Varys and said, “It’s complicated you see.”

“Oh ho! Complicated. We like complicated, don’t we?” he said archly to the audience who shouted their agreement and sat on the edge of their seats.

“Th…there is someone,” she said hesitantly. “But he didn’t know I existed. Not until I was reaped any way.”

“I’ll bet he knows who you are now and is desperate for you to come home.”

“Well, that’s the complicated part be-” Sansa broke off, looked down at her hands before she took a deep breath and gave a sad smile before she continued, “Because he came here with me.”

There was a second of shocked pause before the audience broke out into delighted whispering and Varys swung his head around to look at Jon, who sat there frozen in shock.

Did Sansa mean him? He was the person she was referring too? The cameras zoomed in on his confused face and he could see that there was a tint of colour in his cheeks as he stared towards Sansa who could not look at him.

“Well, well,” he said delightedly. “That _is_ complicated.”

Sansa didn’t look at him as she returned to her seat but his gaze never left her. Her face was suffused in colour and she sat with her hands in her lap, twisting her fingers around. All that was left for the evening was the national anthem and Jon barely stood up in time as it started to play. Then he finally managed to tear his eyes away from her and was off the stage and towards the bank of lifts as quickly as he could. He needed to get away, needed some time to think.

He didn’t bother to slow down or go to change out of his clothes, but went straight up the roof. Was this some kind of strategy of hers? A way to for her to win the crowds over and make herself more interesting. His hand angrily smashed against the arm of the wooden seat he was sat on. Was he just some ploy she’d used to get herself sponsors for the arena?

The door to the roof slammed open and Sansa stood there, looking like an ice queen in her stunning dress. Beautiful and unattainable for people like him and yet she’d said that she loved him in her interview.

“Jon-” she started to say as she made her way over.

The soft way in which she spoke his name tipped his anger over into rage and he stomped his way over to her, looming into her space as he spat, “How dare you? How dare you do that?”

“Listen, it’s not what you think.”

I know that,” he hissed. “Why would Sansa Stark even look my way? But you just made me look like an utter fool in front of the whole country.”

Her face paled at his words and she opened her mouth to speak but he jumped in before she could say anything else. “Just go,” he snapped. “I don’t want to hear it.”

She looked up at him for a long moment and there was something in her eyes that he couldn’t quite place. It looked almost like sadness but why would she be feeling sad? She’d just won the hearts of King’s Landing with some ridiculous tale of pining away for him.

Once she had gone, he sat down again, feeling drained and somehow disappointed. He had never been comfortable with the united theme that Jorah and the team had pushed on him and Sansa. He had come to be more attached to her that he liked. How was he go into the arena with these fond feelings and then be expected to kill her? She apparently had no problems there as she’d played the game perfectly.

The door to the roof opened again and Renly made his way over. “There you are,” he said as he sat a piled plate down on the table in front of Jon. “You missed dinner. You need to eat something.”

“Why did she do that?” he asked with no preamble. “She used me to give herself an angle.”

Renly sighed and shook his head. He shot Jon an almost disappointed glance. “Sansa’s a clever girl. She knows how this world works better than you and she just made you even more interesting.”

“But _how_?” Jon asked nonplussed.

“She made you desirable as well as fierce. Now every girl in King’s Landing is swooning after you.”

“But-,” Jon started to say before he tailed off. He didn’t know what to say to this and stared off over King’s Landing to the Red Keep.

Eventually he picked his fork up and began to eat the lukewarm food. Renly had left at some point but Jon didn’t know when.

 

 

 

 


	3. The Games

Jon had planned to apologise to Sansa the next morning, for shouting at her and looming threateningly over her as well as not appreciating what she had done. A night lying awake had made him fully realise the truth of Renly’s words and he had a need to square everything with her before they went into the arena. But, as with everything where the Games are concerned, Jon’s plan was thwarted.

He was woken pre-dawn by Renly and before he knew it, he was being lifted up into the arena. He hadn’t seen Sansa and hadn’t been able to make things right between them.

Fresh air and warm sunlight hit him as he came up onto a plinth. The tributes had to remain stationary for sixty seconds and he took advantage of the first of those seconds to look around him. Instead of some underground nightmare or a baking hot desert, Jon saw that the arena was a cool forest. The tributes had been lifted into a meadow that was in the middle. The cornucopia, a large gold horn with an imposing trailing tail, dominated the meadow.  A lake ran along one side before giving away to a dark forest.

Jon sniffed the air appreciatively. It smelt like home. In the forest he could see large sentinels, ironwoods, soldier pines, beech, ash, evergreens and hawthorn trees. Rising above the canopy in several places he could see the blood red leaves of Weirwoods. Somehow the sight of the forest set him at ease. It reminded him of the Wolfswood. This was familiar terrain.

His spirits raised, Jon studied the meadow. Supplies lay scattered across the short grass. Closest to him was a sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread. It wouldn’t take more than a second to grab them. Jorah had told him to stay away from the bloodbath – the large scale killing that started off every Games as tributes scrambled for supplies – to run in the opposite direction and get as much space between him and the Careers as possible. But a plastic sheet and a loaf of bread would not do a lot of good. He’d need more to survive in the forest. He eyed a couple of rucksacks that were further off. It would be more a gamble to grab those but he bet they had better supplies in them.

That was the thing with the Games, the closer to the cornucopia, the better the supplies and weapons. Jon’s gaze settled on the mouth of the cornucopia and he saw it lying there taunting him. A bow with a quiver of arrows. It was prominent, displayed exactly in his eye line and he knew they’d put it there to tempt him.

Jon was fast, it was something he hadn’t thought to share with Jorah, but he was. He was tall and lithe and quick off the mark so he could run those 40 yards quickly, but once he had picked the bow up the Careers would have started to arrive. It would be a gamble.

He felt eyes on him and he looked to his left. There, five plinths down, was Sansa. He hadn’t seen her since the night before when he’d laid into her. She was looking at him and shaking her head. She mouthed the words ‘run for it’.

Then the sixty seconds were up and Jon had lost a couple of precious seconds due to staring at Sansa. Irritated with himself, he stooped down and grabbed the sheet of plastic and the loaf of bread and made a dash for an orange rucksack that lay not too far away. He got his hands on it but at the same time as one of the other tributes. It was the male tribute from the Riverlands. They tussled over it for a moment but then blood was spraying over Jon’s face and a knife was protruding from the Riverlands’ boy’s head. Jon looked over the falling boy’s body and saw the girl from the Reach. She’d already grabbed a sheath of knives and had another aimed for him. Flinging the rucksack over his shoulders, he swiftly turned and made a run for it. On instinct, he raised the bag up to cover his head and a second later a knife landed in the back of it.

 _Thanks for the knife_ , he thought as he made it to the treeline and then he was off, slowing to jog as he put as much distance as he could between him and the other tributes.

Three days later, Jon wished all he had to worry about were other tributes instead of how the Gamesmakers were using the arena against him. He could fight tributes, but he couldn’t fight the Gamesmakers. Now, he was close to breaking point, desperate in his search for water and severely dehydrated. He could almost hear Ygritte scolding him angrily for dying in such an ignominious way as if her lessons in survival out in the wild had all been for naught.

He mentally cursed Jorah who must have some sponsorship money to spend on giving him some water. There was no point hoarding it for later if Jon was going to die early on from dehydration. Unless, of course, he was keeping it for Sansa.

Jon winced at the thought of Sansa and the last time he’d seen her, sometime during their first night in the arena. She hadn’t seen him, luckily. No he’d been hidden away, tied by his belt to a tree and out of sight of the pack of Careers she’d seemed to have attached herself to. From what he’d seen through the branches in the dim grey pre-dawn light, she had a split lip and a black eye, but the smarmy kid from the Westerlands had an arm thrown around her shoulders as he congratulated her for going back and killing off an idiot tribute who’d lit a fire to keep warm and advertised her position for miles around.

He hadn’t thought Sansa had it in her. To join up with the Careers who were universally despised by the rest of the regions. Jon didn’t want to think about what people in the North would be saying about her. Even her Stark name wouldn’t save her from condemnation for such tactics – especially as she seemed to have been accepted because she could lead them to him. That was her usefulness for the Careers.

However, he had seen how her eyes had dropped briefly to the direwolf badge pinned onto his outfit by Renly as they’d waited for the Games to start. He had seen the flicker of something fierce in her eyes as she’d seen it. Had he somehow made her want to kill him by wearing the symbol of her house and given her even more reason to join the Careers?

The ugly thought that Jorah may have coached her to do this reared in his mind. Had Jorah realised that this was her best chance of coming out alive and decided to sacrifice Jon to bring her home. Well, it wouldn’t do Sansa any good if Jon died of dehydration. His face would show up that evening and her usefulness would have run its course. It would be better for Jorah to send him the water – it would keep them both alive no matter what tactics he was running.

Then it came to Jon that perhaps the reason why Jorah hadn’t sent him the water was because he was close to finding it himself. This was Jorah’s sign not to give up. That thought had Jon pushing up off the ground and stumbling as fast as he could through the forest. He continued to head along the valley floor. If there was water then it would be found here.

He was crawling, almost blacked out, by the time he did find it. He had a hard time following basic water safety and purifying the water he scooped out of the pond and into his flask – let alone waiting the allotted time for the iodine drops to work.

But, finally, he was hydrated and he could look around to see just where he was. He found that it wasn’t a bad place to camp. There was a water source that contained fish and would be used by animals so he could set up his snares and make sure he had food. There were a couple of sturdy trees he could tie himself to. He nodded to himself. It was a good place to camp whilst he waited to see what the other tributes would do.

Of course nothing in the Games was that easy and four hours later Jon was awoken by the sound of animals fleeing and the unmistakable smell of a forest fire.

Slipping as quickly as he could out of his sleeping bag, he rapidly folded it into his rucksack and started to run, following the directions of the fleeing animals who had better instincts that him in this situation.

The smoke was overwhelming. Heavy and thick, it coated his throat and sting his eyes. He pulled his shirt up to cover his mouth and was grateful for the sweat that soaked his top – at least it provided some sort of barrier against the toxic smoke.

Dizzy and out of breath, Jon had to take a break, leaning against a tree shakily. The fleeing animals were long gone, faster than him and a lot more graceful. He had a myriad of scratches across his face and hands from where he had stumbled into branches. He knew he had to move or the fire would be on him soon.

This was no tribute’s fire gone out of control. This was the work of the Gamesmakers. Therefore it was not a shock when they decided to have even more fun at his expense. It was not enough that he was running from flames, weakened and dizzy, they needed to ratchet up the tension even further. Just behind Jon, a fire ball exploded, sending flames and debris from the tree it exploded up and out.

Pushing himself up on trembling limbs, Jon made himself move again and not a moment too soon as a fireball hit the ground where he had been standing.

All of Jon’s concentration was focused on dodging the next fireball, hurdling burning logs as he weaved side to side in hope that he wouldn’t present such an easy target. But that wasn’t enough in the end. A fireball exploded out a shrub to Jon’s left and set his trousers on fire. He batted at the flames whilst he continued run his hands stinging at the contact.

Finally, entertained enough, the fireballs ended. The Gamesmakers didn’t actually want him dead yet – where would the fun be? They wanted to get the tributes moving towards each other.

Dazed, with his throat raw and his leg painful, Jon stumbled upon a small pond. He plunged his aching hands into the water and the coolness drove the stinging pain away. He then took stock of the damage. His jacket was singed at the back and needed a whole section to be cut away. He finally built up the nerve to roll his trouser leg up. The smell of burnt flesh and the puckered skin made him want to vomit. Healing was his mother and Bran’s forte, not his. But he noticed that the skin was not blackened which was a good thing. Bracing his foot against a rock to keep his boots from getting too wet, Jon soaked the back of his calf in the water. He sighed at the sheer relief of the cool water on the burn.

Jon had been presented as the King of Winter, the snarling Winter Wolf, but the Gamesmakers had set out to prove that fire could melt ice. Well, he was still there, singed and burnt but still alive.

His leg encased in water, Jon watched the sun travel across the sky. He knew he needed to move but he could not find the motivation to get up.

 _Let the Careers come,_ he thought to himself.

And they came giving Jon barely a moment to leap up and sprint away from them. He scrambled up a tree, using his light feet to propel himself up and far out of their reach.

He peered down and observed them. They look beaten up as if they, too, had to run from the flames. Sansa remained with them and Jon avoided her eyes. He was a sitting duck, they knew and he knew it. The only thing he had going for him was his superior tree climbing skills. But that fact alone gave him confidence.

“How are you?” he called down cheerfully, which took the careers aback.

He could see the confusion in their eyes as they heard his confident tone of voice.

“Not bad,” the boy from the Westerlands called back. “Yourself?”

“It’s been a little warm. Weather is not usually this hot above the Neck,” he replied, knowing the irreverent tone would go down well in King’s Landing. They liked a confident tribute and Jon was keen to project this image.

“The airs better up here, though.” He added. “You should try it.”

“Perhaps I will,” the tribute from the Westerlands responded.

“Joffrey, take these,” the girl from the Westerlands said, passing the boy the bow and arrow from the cornucopia.

Jon’s eyes narrowed as he saw them. That was his weapon and he was damned if he was going out, shot like a squirrel in the Wolfswood.

“No,” Joffrey spat as he patted his sword. “I’ll do better with my Lion’s Tooth.”

Heaving himself up even higher, Jon grinned as he watched as Joffrey tried – and failed – to catch up to him. Aware that the other boy did not possess the skill to get to him, Jon called down, “Is that all you have? You need to do better if you’re going to catch me.”

Joffrey snarled, his face contorted in fury as he began to scrabble even more ineffectively at the tree.

“Oh, leave him up there!” Sansa exclaimed wearily. “He’s going to have come down at some point and you can get him then.”

And she was right, Jon realised with a spurt of anger. He couldn’t stay up here indefinitely.

The cocky expression returned to Joffrey’s face and he shouted up, “Enjoy your night, Snow. You won’t see another!”

He scooted down a couple of branches, his burns stinging even worse than before as he settled in for the night. The gloom of twilight fell across the arena but Jon felt no peace in it, instead his mind raced with the need to think of a plan that would get him out of his predicament alive.

The gleam of a pair of eyes staring at him from out of a neighbouring tree made him jump. They weren’t the right shape to be those of a small animal and, as his eyes adjusted to the deepening darkness, he spotted the outline of a small face. It was the girl from the Stormlands, Shireen. She pointed up at something above him. He peered above him and made out the oval shape of a nest five branches up. It was slightly larger than a usual wasp or bee nest which made Jon think that it could be a nest of Tracker Jackers. They were the type of muttation that King’s Landing would put into an arena. They were slightly bigger than wasps and a lot more deadly. They were designed to attack if you got too close to their nests and they would track you for miles – hence their name.

Slipping out of his sleeping bag, Jon crept up the tree not wishing to bring attention to himself either from the potential Tracker Jackers or the Careers. As he stole closer to the nest he could see that they were indeed Tracker Jackers and they appeared subdued by the smoke. There were one or two buzzing dazedly around out the nest, but they were not up to full capacity and Jon was able to sneak in closer. He would not be able to get the nest off – not with Tracker Jackers. They would take him before he’d even managed to disconnect the nest from the branch. Fortunately, the nest was attached to a thin branch and he reckoned he could bring the whole thing down with just his perforated knife.

He began to saw through the branch, ignoring the agony the motion caused in his burnt and sore hands. If he wanted to live then he needed to do this. However, before he could make too much headway it became too dark. He briefly contemplated continuing on, but there was no guarantee in the dark that he could throw the branch down onto the Careers. It could just get lodged in another branch lower down and then he’s definitely be dead as the Tracker Jackers would seek him out before the Career pack.

Trying not the let the disappointment get to him, Jon slid silently back down to the bough that had his sleeping bag tied to it. However, there was now a little container with a silver parachute attached sitting on the top. It was a gift from Haymitch and the sponsors.

Opening up the tub, Jon brought it to his nose and sniffed. It was medicine! Not the herbal kind his mother used back in the North, but a stronger King’s Landing medicine. He grinned into the darkening night, peaked out a little from the branches and whispered a thank you. He hoped the cameras picked him up. He smeared a thin layer over his hands and the relief was instantaneous. He did the same to his calf and relaxed slightly. He might be in a precarious situation but it was looking a lot better than it had thirty minutes ago thanks to Shireen’s tip off regarding the nest and now the burn medicine.

Surprisingly, Jon managed to sleep a little. However, the cold grey light of pre-dawn woke him up. As he slid out of his sleeping bag, after spreading more of the ointment on his hands and calf, he peered down to the Careers. They were all still asleep, including the girl from the Westerlands who sat propped up against the tree. He guessed that she was meant to be the look out.

Carefully, keeping as quiet as he could, he made his way back up to the thin branch where the Tracker Jacker nest hung. There was a decent sized notch already in the branch and he gave a grim smile when he saw it. It wouldn’t take too much work to finish the job. Looking over to the tree where Shireen had been yesterday, he saw her little face peeking out at him. He gave her a thumb’s up and then indicated that she should leave. She gave him a little smile and nod before disappearing. A moment later he heard her as she obviously jumped into the next tree and the one after that and the one after that. He smiled. So that was how she was getting around. It was clever. She didn’t even need to touch the ground and, as he’d seen first-hand the night before, the Careers wouldn’t be able to touch her up a tree.

He got back to work and within a short space of time, the branch was teetering, about to fall. Unfortunately, the Tracker Jackers were no longer subdued and three flew out as he picked the branch up and dropped it down onto the Careers pack. He felt a sting in his thigh but he was too busy observing the pandemonium below to pay too much attention.

The nest burst open onto the sleeping Careers who leapt about. The ones furthest from the nest made a run back to the lake and the cornucopia, however the girl from the Westerlands just stood there screeching as the Tracker Jackers swarmed around her.

Jon had his own problems as the three Tracker Jackers that had left the nest before he’d flung it down continued to bother him. He felt more stings as he half slid and half fell down the rest of the tree. Once he hit the ground, he aimed for the small pool of water where he’d assuaged his burns in yesterday and when he made it, he flung himself into the water, submerging even his head, as he waited for the Tracker Jackers’ to lose him.

A couple of seconds later, he re-emerged. There was no sign of the gold muttations so he waded out of the water. He searched his body for stings and found three. He pulled the stingers out and ignored the green pus that oozed out of the plum sized lumps the stings left behind. His head reeling, Jon heard the canon go off. The Westerlands girl must he dead he thought. The idea then came to him. She’d been the one with the bow and arrows and if he was going to survive he needed them.

He stumbled back to the tree the best he could with his vision blacking in and out on him. The trees loomed high over him for one moment and then shrunk to an impossible size the next. It must be the hallucinations that the Tracker Jacker venom caused. When Jon reached the tree, he was grateful to see that the hovercraft hadn’t been yet to collect her body. She was laying with the bow and quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder. If he was going to prized them free then he was going to need to move her. He shuddered at the thought as she was covered in stings that oozed the same green pus that his three stings did. However, he needed that bow so he swallowed down his reservations and made a grab for it.

He had just released it from her body, ignoring the way the green pus stuck to his hands and how her body felt squishy with it when footsteps pounded through the undergrowth. The surviving careers had come back and they would be incredibly angry.

Sansa arrived first and she stopped when she saw him. “Jon!” she exclaimed. “What are you still doing here?”

Not far behind her was Joffrey, whose face was mottled red in anger and Jon could see a large sting under his ear.

“Get out of here!” Sansa shouted and Jon didn’t hesitate to follow her instructions.

He ran as fast as he could, unsure if he was dodging real or imaginary trees as he ran. He wasn’t sure how long he managed to run or what distance he’d put between himself and Joffrey, but he collapsed, exhausted and unable to continue on, into a small pit. It was filled with bright orange bubbles and Jon flinched as he hit them in case they were another trick of the Gamesmakers. But they must have been more hallucinations as they did nothing.

His eyes closed and blacked out as he thought that.

Jon wasn’t sure how long he drifted in and out of consciousness. The hallucinations continued on, Varys was there, simpering at him from behind a tree, then there was Ygritte imploring him to move and Sansa, her face worried as she screamed at him to leave. Bran came to him, too, sitting in a nest of Weirwood roots, imploring him to win and somehow making the leaves of the tree whisper along with him; _Promise me, Jon. Promise me._

Judging by the sun, it was late afternoon when Jon woke up. However, he wasn’t sure if it was late afternoon of the same day or not.

He popped up from the ditch he’d fallen in and counted his blessings that none of the other tributes had stumbled across him. He wasn’t exactly camouflaged and he would’ve made an easy target. He grinned as he realised that he still held the bow with the quiver of arrows over his shoulder. Now, he would not have to hide and run like prey. He could become the hunter.

Standing, he stretched his arms above his head and turned his neck to get rid of the cricks. His stomach rumbled and it reminded him that he needed to eat which meant he needed to hunt.

The stings still throbbed but he didn’t have time to worry about that. He needed to catch something and then find a new camp.

Within thirty minutes, Jon had a fine haul thanks to his bow. Two rabbits and fat turkey like bird. He found a good clearing with a couple of sturdy trees he could sleep up at night and settled down to cleaning his catch and roasting it on a small fire.

The minute sound of rustling had him snatching up his bow and nocking an arrow. Not everyone would’ve caught the sound but Jon was used to forests and he knew that was no animal. It was a human.

“Come out!” he ordered, his bow and arrow aimed at the clump of scrubs on the far side of the clearing.

A little head peeked out and Jon sighed in relief. It was the little girl was the Stormlands, Shireen.

“Here,” Jon said, patting the ground next to him. “You hungry?”

Wide-eyed and unsure she inched out of her hiding place, licking her lips at the food Jon had laid out, but she didn’t come any further. She was scared of him and what he might do to her.

Putting in the smile he used to reassure Bran when thunderstorms shock the Gift, Jon said, “I won’t hurt you. The Careers don’t have to be the only ones with allies.”

She tilted her head and was obviously mulling over his words. “You want to ally with me?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Jon replied and he could practically hear Jorah groaning in despair.

“Come on,” he said. “You must be hungry and there’s plenty of food here and now I have a bow I can easily catch us some more.”

A smile lit up her face and Jon didn’t care what happened later, he would not regret looking out for this little girl.

They spent the rest of the day talking. Shireen filled him in on how many days he’d been out (two) and how the careers had set up their camp. She was an excellent spy and he realised that she had been protecting him from a tree whilst he’d been unconscious. It made him all the more grateful for his decision to ally with her and feed her.

As they huddled up together at night, Jon started to think of ways to take out the Careers. According to Shireen, they had all the food and other supplies neatly stacked out in the open. They only left one Career in charge of it so it must be rigged somehow. Jon knew that if he could take out those supplies then the playing field would be evened out significantly. The Careers weren’t used to starving, they had been well fed their whole lives and they wouldn’t know how to survive without the abundant supplies from King’s Landing. In previous Games, whenever the supplies had been destroyed it was usually a tribute from one of the lesser regions who won.

If he could just learn how the supplies were booby trapped then he could find a way to destroy them. It was his best chance of putting them on the same footing as him and getting home.

By early afternoon, Jon was concealed in a copse that Shireen had told him about. It was the perfect spot to observe the Careers from. He and Shireen had brainstormed a plan early in the morning whilst they ate the rest of the rabbits. Shireen was to create a diversion so the Careers would move out and give Jon the opportunity to sabotage their supplies. As Jon had hunted for more game, they had built three greenwood fires, ready for Shireen to light them later and allow the smoke to draw the Careers deep into the woods. Then they had cooked the new catch of food, split it up and gone their separate ways. Jon had buried the worry he’d felt over leaving Shireen alone. If either of them was going to progress any further in the Games, then they had to do something about the advantage the Careers held over them all.

As Jon watched, trying to puzzle out how the food was rigged, the clever girl from Dorne darted out from under the trees. He watched as she leapt and twirled daintily over to the supplies, taking advantage of the fact that Joffrey had insisted that all the Careers go out to hunt for more tributes. She finally made it to the supply pyramid and then rifled her way through the food, taking a couple of apples, some dried jerky and some crackers. It was obvious that she must have been doing this for a while and taking only small amounts of food so that no one knew it was going missing. She stuffed it all in her rucksack and then made her way carefully back through the ground around the pyramid and ran back into the woods.

Jon gave it ten or so minutes before he ventured out. Once he got close to the plinths that had brought them up into the arena, he smiled. The turf around them had been disturbed and then patted back down. The Careers had taken out the landmines and obviously used them to mine the ground around their supply pyramid.

If he was going to destroy all the supplies, then he needed to set off more than one landmine. He need at least four or five to go off, but how? It was then that Jon remembered the sack of apples! If he could put a hole in the sack big enough so that the fruit scattered about then they were numerous and heavy enough to set off landmines.

He set aside three arrows for the job which would still leave him with nine arrows to hunt with. He nocked the first arrow and gave a grim smile as it opened up a small opening in the burlap sack. The second arrow made the hole larger, but not big enough for the apples to drop out yet. Nocking his third – and final – arrow, Jon let it fly and gave a shout of laughter as it hit true and the apples scattered.

He didn’t have time to think of much else as the explosion that was set off was bigger than he expected. It sent him flying backwards where he lay semi-concealed in a daze. He scrambled up onto his hands and knees and crawled as quickly as he could back to the copse, knowing that the Careers would return any moment.

Jon had just hidden himself a way when the Careers came pounding back down towards the lake and the cornucopia. He knew they’d be angry but he did not expect the sheer anger that Joffrey exhibited. He stood there pulling at his hair and screaming into the sky. The Career from the Vale who had set the explosives made the mistake of saying something. Her ability with the landmines had been the only thing keeping her useful for the Careers, who didn’t usually ally up with someone from the Vale. Joffrey seized her and stuck his knife deep into her neck before dropping her disdainfully to the ground. She lay twitching for a few moments but none of the other Careers paid her any attention.

Turning his head away, Jon slumped further down into the bushes and checked himself for injuries. He was still dizzy and there was a tinny sound in both ears. He realised he couldn’t hear anything else and put his hands up to assess the damage. His right ear appeared okay but blood dribbled from his left ear and Jon dabbed at it ineffectively with his sleeve. Without hearing and as unbalanced as he was, Jon knew he could not go leave his cover. He would have to wait it out no matter how much he wanted to return to Shireen.

He dozed on and off in the night and by the grey light of pre-dawn, the hearing had returned to his right ear. He could still hear nothing from his left but he didn’t have time to worry about that now. He forced some cold groosling down his into his stomach before he set off to meet up with Shireen.

Later that morning and Jon still hadn’t located Shireen. He wasn’t too worried because her face hadn’t shown up in the sky later last night. So she wasn’t dead but she had obviously been disturbed between setting the second fire and the third because the third fire remained unlit. She was probably holed up in a tree, keeping safe and out of sight. The thought relaxed him and he shot a couple more rabbits as he tracked through the woods in search of her.

A high pitched scream, the kind that only a little girl can make, sounded out over the quiet woods and fear overtook Jon. He started to run towards the sound and then he heard her.

“Jon! Jon!” she screamed. “Help me, Jon!”

He pushed his way through the undergrowth, running as fast as he could, whilst he readied an arrow. Clattering into a clearing he saw Shireen trapped in a net, her eyes wide and scared.

“Jon!” she said relieved.

He lowered his bow and was stepping towards her ready to cut her down when her relief turned to shock and a spear burst through her chest. Jon looked over her shoulder and saw the male tribute for the Reach. Before he knew it, Jon had raised his bow and released an arrow that landed in the neck of the Career. The other tribute could do nothing more than claw at his throat briefly, before he toppled over, dead. A cannon rang out.

Sprinting towards Shireen, Jon cut her down and held her in his arms. “You’re going to be okay, Shireen. We’ll get you away from here and get you some help,” he said desperately.

She looked at him out of big blue eyes that drowned in sadness. “I’m not going to make it,” she whispered. “But you can. Jon, you can get home!”

Her words reminded him vividly of Bran’s and his eyes filled with tears and his arms shook with the effort to suppress his sobs.

“Sing me something,” Shireen said. “Sing to me please.”

Jon remembered a song his father would sing in the evenings whilst he played his harp. It was a sad lament and it felt fitting for Shireen now. Jon’ voice was low and not nearly as clear as his father’s, but it filled the clearing as he sang _Autumn of My Day_.

Shireen stopped breathing before he reached the end, but he had to keep singing. He needed to reach the end and honour Shireen anyway that he could.

He wiped a stray tear from his eye as he laid Shireen back down on the ground. He needed to move away so the hovercraft could collect her body. As he turned to leave, his eyes fell on a clump of wildflowers. Before he had even thought about it, he had collected an armful and was back where Shireen lay. He took his time in decorating her body, giving her the goodbye that she deserved. She had been too young for the Games and her death was horrific, but now she looked peaceful and at ease as if she really were just sleeping in a meadow of wild flowers.

When he finished, Jon kissed her forehead and stood directing the North’s three fingers salute in her direction. He doubted King’s Landing would show any of this but they would show the hovercraft picking up her body and everyone would see that he had put the flowers around her.

Jon spent that afternoon and the next day in a haze of depression. He did just enough to eat and for the rest of the time he lay in his sleeping bag tied to a tree. He had no interest in venturing out to see what was going on. The only time he had felt any interest in anything was when a silver parachute had landed on him. It contained the fresh bread that he remembered Sansa telling him was a speciality of the Stormlands and had obviously been sent by Shireen’s district. He had crawled out of his sleeping bag then and directed yet another three fingered salute into the sky.

No cannons rang out and no pictures of tributes were shown in the sky.

However, after the anthem was played on the second night there was a fanfare of trumpets and the voice of Barristan Selmy rang out.

“Contestants of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, there has been a change in the rules. It has been decided this year that two winners can go home if they are of the same region.”

This pulled Jon out from his slump and he sat up dazed as he shouted, “Sansa!” into the dark night.

He immediately clamped his hands over his mouth and his heart pounded in his ears as he waited for the tell-tale sound of feet coming to track him down. But there was nothing and as the minutes passed, Jon was able to relax back down into his sleeping bag.

The words of the Games announcer swam in his mind. Two victors. There could be two victors. He and Sansa could both go home. He thought back to Shireen’s words when he told her about the potential hallucination of Sansa saving him from Joffrey.

_“I think it was her,” Shireen said._

_“Why? It could easily have been a hallucination. Besides, why would she endanger herself for me? She joined up with the Careers. I am nothing but an obstacle.”_

_Shireen watched him with a knowing look in her eye that was far beyond her years. “You know nothing, Jon Snow,” she said. “She would save you.”_

Perhaps Shireen was right. Perhaps Sansa had been protecting him in some strange way by banding together with the Careers. He had refused to think about it before now because any thought of Sansa was painful. If he fulfilled his promise to Bran and returned home then it meant that she couldn’t and he hadn’t been able to dwell on that.

But now! Now there was the chance that they could both go home. He would go looking for her first thing in the morning. Even if he had been reluctant to do so, he still would have gone. The North would’ve never forgiven either of them if they refused to team up and come home together.

For the first time since Shireen died, Jon woke up with purpose the next morning. He was going to find Sansa and he was going to get them both home. He was not going to lose someone else to this arena.

Only he wasn’t too sure where to start. He hadn’t seen hair nor hide of Sansa since the incident with the Tracker Jackers. She hadn’t been with the Careers when he’d observed them the other day – not that he’d been surprised by that. But she also hadn’t been killed, which meant she was somewhere in the forest.

He decided the best thing would be to return to where he’d last seen her and then try and work out where she could’ve gone. When he reached the tree, he made his way to the river. Having seen Joffrey’s rage up close, Jon knew that he was the kind of person who would want to hunt someone down for revenge. Sansa would surely know this, too, and must have taken some precautions.

So Jon tracked along the river. Heading away from the lake and towards parts of the wood he had never set foot in. The riverbed soon became stony with large boulders dotting the landscape. There wasn’t much here and Jon wondered if Sansa would’ve come this way. He presumed he would’ve seen her if she’d headed in his direction but he’d not had much contact with any of the other tributes either so there is a possibility that she could have just been hiding out.

He turned to go, frustrating setting in as he ran a hand through his hair.

Then he heard it, a whisper of, “Jon.”

He’d recognise that voice anywhere – it wasn’t just that she had a Northern accent, but that he’d know Sansa’s voice anywhere.

When had that happened?

Looking around, Jon was confused. He couldn’t see her anywhere, then there was a rustling noise, and blue eyes set within a tree. He jumped, his heart pounding as it was so reminiscent of his hallucinations of Bran in a Weirwood, but this was no Weirwood, just a plain Sentinel tree.

“Sansa?” he asked getting closer.

The eyes blinked out at him and he tilted his head. If he hadn’t seen her eyes then he would never have guessed that she there.

“Your dressmaking skills came in handy then,” he said with a little laugh.

She huffed out a sound of amusement but it soon turned to one of pain. “You have to dig me out,” she said. “Joffrey cut me with Lion’s Paw and it hurts to move.”

It took a while to get Sansa out and then he was half dragging her down to the river to wash away the rest of the grime so he could get a good look at her. He stripped her down to her underwear to wash her clothes, not worrying too much about privacy. They didn’t get any in the arena anyway. The only reason King’s Landing didn’t show them going to the toilet was because the citizens had no desire to watch it.

Sansa had several small burns that were easy to treat with the ointment that Jorah had sent him, as well as a couple of large Tracker Jacker stings that he treated with the leaves as Shireen had shown him. It was the leg wound that was the worst. Jon didn’t think of himself as particularly squeamish. You couldn’t be living in the Gift, but the cut was bad. Luckily it had missed her femoral artery or she would’ve bled out days ago, but it was deep and inflamed with pus.

Jon wasn’t sure what to do so he decided to put some of the leaves in to draw out the pus. It had worked with the stings so there was a possibility it would work here too. He almost gagged at the amount of pus that came out of the wound, which he cleaned away and then put some of the medicinal cream Jorah had sent on it. Finally, he wrapped it in a bandage he’d found in the first aid kit in boy from the Reach’s rucksack.

“That’s the best I can do,” Jon said, looking up at Sansa, who was flushed and heavy eyed.

He put his palm against her forehead and swore. She was burning up.

“When was the last time you ate, Sansa?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Don’t know. When I was with the Careers.”

So a couple of days. The first aid kit had some fever reducing pills in it which was good but she was going to need to eat if she was able to fight the fever off. Jon looked around the landscape. He had planned to return to the spot he’d camped in the last couple of days, but there was no way Sansa would get there, and even if she did manage to drag herself that far, she would never be able to climb a tree in her condition. He spotted a cave of sorts a few metres up from where they currently were. It wasn’t adequately hidden but he could probably do something about that and most importantly it would get them out of the open.

He heaved her up into a standing position and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. They took one step and her leg buckled so he swung her up in his arms. At least they would leave less of a trail this way.

Once he had Sansa in the cave, he rolled open the sleeping bag and placed her inside. He wasn’t sure whether she should be wrapped up or stripped down so he compromised by not zipping the sleeping bag up and soaking a bandage in water and putting it on her forehead. Then he forced some jerky into her mouth along with a fever pill and bullied her into swallowing it all down with water.

Sansa fell asleep not long after, which Jon thought would probably help her body regain some strength. While she slept, he did his best to camouflage the cave and also set some snares. They would need food by tomorrow.

With nothing else to do, Jon moved back to Sansa, sat by her and stroked her hair. She looked pale but her skin was nowhere near as hot, which could only be a good thing. He had spent the last week being so angry with her and angry with himself for becoming fond of her during their time in King’s Landing that it now felt strange to give in to more tender emotions and allow himself to care for her.

He wasn’t sure why she had joined the Career Pack, but he wasn’t so sure that it was to help her win. She had sacrificed her alliance with them to warn him and make him move, he was certain that hadn’t been a hallucination now. But why?

Her words during her interview couldn’t be true, could they? Had she really harboured some unrequited crush on him? He was nothing, another nobody in the Gift, whereas she was a Stark who lived in Winter Town. She wouldn’t have tried to sacrifice her own chances to make sure he got home.

Would she?

He fingered the Direwolf badge that was still pinned on him. They could both go home, anyway, and Jon was filled with a determination to bring her back with him.

He bent his head and kissed her forehead softly, allowing a little smile at the thought that neither would have to die so the other to return.

There was a clattering sound and a container attached to a silver parachute landed next to him. It woke Sansa from her sleep and she blinked around groggily before her eyes alighted on the container.

“A gift from Jorah!” she said with a smile.

Jon opened it and saw that it was thermos filled with a broth. The kind of food that would be perfect for Sansa’s delicate stomach after a couple of days of not eating. Much better than the jerky she’d gagged on as she’d swallowed it.

He showed her and said, “No excuses or grumbling now. You have to eat this.”

She made a face. “What’s the point? It’s not like I’ll be going home with this cut.”

“Shut up,” he snapped fiercely. “You think I am going to leave here without you now that we can both go home?”

She looked taken aback at his words and her eyes studied his face. She must have seen the sheer determination he felt because she smiled then – a warm tender smile – and opened her mouth so he could spoon in some of the soup.

When her eyes had fluttered shut once more, Jon continued to sit close to her, his hand stroking her hair. Jorah’s gift had come after he’d shown affection and he knew his mentor well enough to understand the sign. Be loving towards Sansa because it gained them sponsors. They would need more sponsors if they were both to go home.

For the first time, Jon was grateful that Sansa was easy to love.

By the next evening, Sansa’s condition wasn’t getting any better. Her fever hadn’t properly broken despite the pills and there were worrying red lines coming out from her leg wound. If he couldn’t get her any proper medicine in the next day or so then she was going to die. Jorah had only sent them that broth and Jon couldn’t believe that they didn’t have any more sponsors. He’d spent the day being tender towards her, kissing her brow and keeping her snuggled into him. No, their mentor was holding out for some reason or another.

The reason came clear a few minutes later when there was another fanfare of trumpets and the voice of Barristan Selmy sounded out.

“Contestants of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, I would like to invite you all to a feast at the cornucopia tomorrow at dawn-”

Jon scoffed. He didn’t need food and the Gamesmakers only ever put on a feast so they could force the tributes to fight over food.

“Now, now,” Barristan continued. “Some of you might be rejecting this offer out of hand. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately and we will provide what you need tomorrow at the feast in a bag clearly marked with your region’s name.”

Jon’s head whipped around to look at Sansa to find that she had been woken by the announcement.

She shook her head at him. “You can’t, Jon. It’s a trap. You know it’s a trap.”

“But you need that medicine.”

“You’ll get killed and then what will happen to me? I’ll still die. It’s better than one of us goes home than none.”

He strode over to her and cupped her face in between his hands. “I won’t go home without you, Sansa. I have to try to get that medicine.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “It’s a stupid idea.”

He sized her up and said, “It’s not like you can stop me.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes at that. “If you go then I’ll follow you.”

“You wouldn’t,” he scoffed.

But he could see the stubborn determination in her eyes and had to turn away from her to pace around the cave in frustration. “I’m going to check my snares,” he muttered, needing to get out.

“If you don’t come back then I will come and find you,” she said insistently.

He knew she would so he would have to return at some point. As he was making his way down to the river, a container landed silently beside him. He picked it up quizzically. There was no way Jorah would’ve been allowed to send the medicine that Sansa needed. The Gamesmakers wanted to draw him out and had used his desperation over Sansa’s condition to do so.

He opened the container to find that Jorah had sent him some kind of liquid. It had a sweet smell and it have him an idea of what it was. He touched a fingertip of it to his mouth and smiled grimly when his suspicions were confirmed.

Jorah had sent him milk of the poppy.

He knew what he had to do now and he quickly gathered some herbs so he could make a tea that he could slip the medicine into. It wouldn’t help Sansa’s wound, but it would dull the pain and more importantly put her to sleep. Jorah had sent him just enough so she’d sleep through the night and next day.

“Here,” Jon said, once he’d heated up the tea over a small fire. “Drink this.”

“What is it?” Sansa asked suspiciously.

“Just a tea – I found some lemon verbena growing. It’s not lemon cakes but I thought you might like it.”

“How do you know I like lemon cakes?” she asked.

Jon rolled his eyes. “The whole of the North knows you like lemon cakes. Your dad makes them and labels them _Sansa’s Delight_.”

She blushed at his words but there was a fond smile on her face making it obvious that she was thinking about home. She took a sip of the tea and frowned. “It tastes a little strange,” she remarked.

“Yeah, I added some mint in. My mother makes it like that.”

She frowned but contained to drink. It wasn’t until she was half way through that her eyes opened wide in horror. “Milk of the poppy,” she slurred. “It’s got milk of the poppy it in.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon said. “But I need to get you that medicine.”

He forced her to swallow the rest of it, looking away from her eyes that stared up at him accusingly, but he refused to feel bad about his actions. She needed the medicine and he had the means to go and get it.

He stayed that night at the cave, deciding to go down towards the cornucopia just before dawn. He slipped inside the sleeping bag with Sansa and held her whilst she slumbered.

He got to the copse by the lake before dawn and scoped out the scene with the night vision glasses. The rucksacks weren’t there but then again it wasn’t dawn yet. As he crouched down, he tried to think of a strategy to get the medicine without getting killed. He didn’t think he could take on the boy from the Stormlands, Gendry, without being mauled and even Joffrey had a muscled quality that came from being a well fed Career. Margaery and her knives were also dangerous. The only one he didn’t fear was the girl from Dorne. She’d survived so far on her wits rather than combat.

The Sand Snake, as he’d come to call her, proved to be a step ahead of them all again as she darted out of the cornucopia as soon as the rucksacks were raised and grabbed the one clearly labelled Dorne before dashing away into the woods.

Jon swore. How had he not thought of camping out in the cornucopia overnight? It was a clever strategy. Now all the other tributes waiting would be on alert for the next person darting out.

But Jon had to take the risk. Sansa needed that medicine and every minute he delayed was detrimental to her health. Then there was the very real prospect that someone would take his rucksack. The only reason why the Sand Snake hadn’t taken any of the other bags was because she didn’t want to be tracked.

Crouching as he ran, Jon sprinted into the meadow and snatched up the tiny bag and was in the process of attaching it to his arm when he spotted the knife out the corner of his eye. He managed to raise his arm to deflect it but it cut his eyebrow, causing blood to drip into his left eye. As he attempted to wipe the trickle away, he was tackled to the ground. He found himself at the mercy of Margaery, who had a small knife already in her hand and smug sadistic smile on her face. He wanted to buck her off, but the knife was at his throat, pressing in against his windpipe.

“Where’s lover girl, Jon? She not here to help you? Joffrey stuck her good. How long is she going to last when you don’t return? And you’re not going to return. Joffrey said I could kill you as long as I draw it out and give the audience a show. How slow and painful do you think I can make this?”

She drew the flat of the blade up, across his chin and to his lips. She circled them and said, “Are you going to scream as little Shireen did? You couldn’t save your friend and you can’t save your lover either.”

There was no way Jon was going out looking scared or meek. If he was going to die then it would be with some fight in him and he was about to grapple with her when her weight was suddenly gone. Jon stared up in confusion and saw that Gendry had his hands around Margaery’s neck and she was a half a foot off the ground.

“What did you say? You killed Shireen?” Gendry growled.

Margaery shook her head desperately. “No, no! I didn’t,” she said.

“I just heard you. You spoke about killing her.”

“I didn’t” she wept, truthfully before shouting, “Joffrey! Joffrey! Help me!”

Gendry raised a rock then and brought it down sharply on Margaery’s head, caving in her skull at the temple. He then flung her aside and advanced on Jon.

“What she said, is it true?” he asked. “That you were Shireen’s ally?”

Jon gulped and said, “Yeah. She was killed by the boy from the Reach. I sung to her as she died.”

“I’ll let you go this once, Snow. For the little girl,” Gendry said with a nod before grabbing both his rucksack and the ones labelled Westerlands and the Reach.

Jon didn’t wait around for Joffrey to come, scrambling to his feet and sprinting back into the woods.

By the time he made it back to the cave, the cut on his head was bleeding freely and black spots were starting to dance in front of his eyes, but he didn’t have time to worry about that. He ripped open the bag and found a hypodermic needle which he plunged into the top of Sansa’s arm before he passed out.

When he came too, he was lying bundled up in the sleeping bag. From the noise outside, it sounded as if was raining. Sansa sat at the front of the cave, a knife in her head as she stared out through the foliage he’d used to camouflage the entrance.

He groped at his head and felt a thick bandage around his forehead. The noise he made as moved disturbed Sansa and she turned towards him. The first thing that he noticed was her healthy colour. The peach tint was back in her cheeks, her blue eyes were no longer cloudy and bloodshot and there was no sheen of sweat on her forehead.

“You’re awake,” she said.

There was disapproval in her voice and Jon’s lips turned down.

“Yeah. Did you bandage me up?”

“Someone had to,” she said coldly, turning back towards the mouth of the cave. “I woke up and you were passed out in a pool of blood.”

He bit his lips at her words. It must have been a scary thing to wake up to so he could understand why she was so angry.

“I’m sorry,” he offered.

“I told you not to go. You shouldn’t have risked it. You obviously nearly died!”

He sat up then, leading against the stone wall behind him. “It was worth it.”

She let out a frustrated huff.

“How are you feeling?” he asked tentatively.

She looked at him then and he saw the anger leave her face as she studied him. Then she stood up and moved to sit next to him. “I’m fine,” she said, running her head across his bandaged forehead and then down his cheek and beard. “Thank you.”

He grabbed her hand and pressed a kiss on her fingers. “I meant what I said, I couldn’t go back to the North without you.”

She smiled at him before she pulled her hand out of his and pulled one of their bags closer to her. Unzipping it, she pulled out some of the wrapped up meat. “Here. You need to eat something.”

She watched as he bit into a rabbit leg and said, “I’m sorry. When I woke up I was so hungry that I had demolished a bird before I even stopped to think about rationing it.” She looked out at the rain, grimaced and asked, “Are you going to be able to hunt in this weather?”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry. We have enough to last us tomorrow. Maybe the rain will have abated by then.”

She cast a doubtful look outside. “Maybe.”

When he had eaten and drunk some water, he patted the sleeping back to invite her to come and sit next to him. He was surprised when she snuggled into him, but wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

“I never thanked you for coming to find me. I’m not sure I would’ve lasted another day.”

Jon didn’t think she would’ve either but all he said was, “’Course I came.”

“Why did you?”

“Why would I not come? If we can both go home why would I not want that?”

“But I joined the Careers. You must hate me for that.”

“I didn’t understand it but then you saved me. If you were truly allied to the Careers then you wouldn’t have saved me that day with the Tracker Jackers.”

Silence fell naturally between them and it was obvious she was mulling over his words. “You don’t owe me anything,” she said finally. “I know how it works in the Gift and you don’t owe me for warning that you Joffrey was coming.”

“How about for the bread then?” he asked. “If you hadn’t given me that bread then I wouldn’t be here today.”

“You remember that?”

“How could I forget? You saved me that day. Why did you do it?”

Coloured flooded Sansa’s cheeks. “I wanted to help,” she said simply.

“But why?” he asked insistently.

“I knew who you were. My father pointed you out on my first day of school. He said that you were a distant relative, some kind of cousin, and that if I got in any trouble and Robb wasn’t around then I was to go to you. Then a few years later, Arya got into that scrap with a couple of boys from the Gift. They were all older than her and you waded in, knocked a couple of heads together and pulled her out, and since then I’ve always noticed you.”

“I’d forgotten about that,” Jon said with a laugh.

“I hadn’t,” Sansa said peeping up at him from under her lashes. “And neither has Arya.”

“So you gave me the bread because of that?”

“Yes amongst other things.”

“Other things?” he pushed.

“The thing I said during the interview, it wasn’t a lie. I’ve always admired you,” she said in a strangled voice, looking down at her hands.

He put a finger under her chin then and tilted her head back up. “I’m glad,” he said before he bent his head to kiss her.

Jon had never had any time to kiss any of the girls back home. Ygritte had laughed at him when he’d shied away from Val, who made no pretence of how much she’d have liked him to take her to Godswood for a little kissing practice. But kissing Sansa didn’t make him nervous. His lips tingled from where they met his and his heart skittered as their warm breath mingled and her tongue slipped into his mouth. Her hand tangled into his hair as she pulled him closer towards her and they kissed until they were panting and out of breath.

“Maybe it will rain tomorrow, too,” Jon said with a hopeful grin.

Sansa let out a burst of laughter and they snuggled down together for the night.

By the next day, the rain had not ceased and Jon was feeling a lot more refreshed and therefore frustrated at not being able to get out to hunt. They were down to two rabbit legs, a couple of root vegetables and a bag of dried fruit and seeds that had been in the boy from the Reach’s bag.

“It’s not good, is it?” Sansa asked as she stared down at the meagre haul and grimaced.

Jon shook his head. “But there’s no point in trying to eek it out. The rabbit won’t last another day anyway,” he said as he handed her one of the legs.

She tried to only eat half and give him the rest but he glared at her and said, “You need to regain your strength.”

She sighed but continued to eat it. He didn’t miss the way she gnawed on the bone afterwards as if it would somehow fill her up.

There wasn’t much they could do so they sat together and talked. By unspoken mutual consent, they avoided any topics that would be too painful. Instead, they concentrated on learning each other and talking about trivial things. Jon almost forgot that they were in the Games.

Affection became easy between them, too, as if their confidences and the kiss the night before had opened the dam. They constantly touched and exchanged lazy long kisses.

It wasn’t until there was a clatter and a flash of silver that Jon remembered they were being watched. Going by the amount of food that the container held, the sponsors were enjoying their romance.

The reminder of the cameras constrained both their behaviour. It shouldn’t have really. If they wanted more gifts, then they needed to keep doing what they had been, but playing up the cameras felt as if it tainted their growing connection.

Instead, they grinned at the food and ate part of it. The anxious feeling in the pit of Jon’s stomach eased with the meal. He hadn’t wanted to mention it but he had worried about how he was to hunt and keep them strong for the final showdown, which he knew was steadily approaching.

“When do you think they’ll end this?” Sansa whispered into his ear that night as they lay together in the sleeping bag.

He leaned over her, placing his lips on her cheek and trailing kisses down to her ear. It would look affectionate on screen and would give him the opportunity to talk without the cameras picking up his words.

“Soon. The deaths are too spread out now and King’s Landing are going to start getting bored.”

Their whispered conversation was interrupted by the projection going up. Through the mouth of the cave, Jon could just make out the wavering picture of Gendry. He was surprised at the regret that swept through him at Gendry’s death. He hadn’t wanted to think about it but if he and Sansa couldn’t return then he had wanted Gendry to win. There was also a thread of relief that Gendry was out of the running, that he wouldn’t have to kill him and it made him feel horribly guilty.

He turned towards Sansa confused and said, “Did you hear a cannon today?”

She shook her head and her eyes were sad as she stared up at Gendry’s picture. “Just four of us left.”

Gendry’s death didn’t dispel the feeling that the end was coming and this was further reinforced the next morning when they woke up to the sun shining. Jon insisted that they finish up the rest of the food and they made a good meal. Even if the end didn’t come today, he would have food from hunting.

When they made it outside, the water from the river had dried up.

“Do you think they dried out all the pools?” Sansa asked.

“I reckon everything but the lake,” Jon said grimly.

Sansa nodded. The fact that the tributes were being driven together for a reason remaining unsaid.

Jon still deemed it important to hunt and gather just in case they remained in the arena longer than anticipated. Being weak from lack of food would not advantage them in any way. So he sent Sansa off to gather berries, making sure she knew Shireen’s four note whistle so they could signal each other and with orders to stay in range.

He moved out into a small clearing and hid behind a small bush waiting for creatures to return after Sansa’s noisier footsteps had scared them away. He could hear Sansa’s whistles periodically so he did not worry about her.

A squirrel had just come into range when a cannon went off. Swiftly regaining his feet, Jon turned in the direction where he had left Sansa, frantically whistling to her. She didn’t return any of his calls and his heart pounded with fear that the cannon had gone off for her. Raising his bow, he abandoned all caution and began screaming her name.

She popped out of a bush, alarm giving away to relief when she saw that he was okay. He strode up to her and grasped her shoulders in a strong grip. “Why didn’t you answer my signals?” he thundered. “I thought you were dead!”

“I’m sorry,” she replied. “I didn’t hear them. I must have wandered away further than I realised.”

Fear and anger gave away to sheer relief and Jon wrapped her in a quick fierce hug.

“Who was the cannon for?” Sansa whispered.

They made their way back to where they’d left the sheet of plastic with some of the berries and roots already collected spread out. Lying face down with berries spilling from her hand was the tribute from Dorne. A trickle of purple foam ran down her black skin from her mouth.

Jon bent, examined her briefly and then gestured for Sansa to show him the berries in her hand. She handed them over and he held them up. They looked very similar to the harmless berries that Shireen had taught him to gather, but they were slightly smaller and rounder with a sourer smell.

“Those aren’t edible,” Jon said, thanking the old gods for the fact that Sansa hadn’t snacked on them. “That’s nightlock, which is highly poisonous.”

Alarmed, Sansa went to drop those she held in her hand but Jon stopped her, grabbing a couple and putting them in the small bag that had held her medicine and he’d kept strapped around his wrist.

“A few could come in useful. The Careers don’t know how to gain food so Joffrey might do the same as her if we drop the bag in front of him.”

Sansa’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. It would be so much better than either of them having to take on Joffrey.

“Come on,” she said. “There’s only 3 of us now. Let’s head down to the lake.”

Jon nodded. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. King’s Landing would be bouncing in anticipation at the prospect of the end and the Gamesmakers would do what was needed to reward that excitement.

They didn’t bother hiding when they got down the meadow, sitting at the edge in the sunlight and sipping from their water bottles. They gripped each other’s hands but didn’t speak much. Adrenalin fizzed through Jon’s body and it took all his patience to sit there still and quiet.

They didn’t have to wait long before Joffrey crashed his way out of the undergrowth. Quick as a flash, Jon had his bow raised and fired off an arrow. It hit Joffrey squarely in his chest, but instead of embedding itself in his skin, it bounced harmlessly off him.

 _Armour,_ Jon thought, _He’s wearing armour._

However, Joffrey didn’t even to spare Jon a glance, let alone attack him. Instead, he continued to run towards the Cornucopia. Something was obviously chasing him.

Jon tightened his grip around Sansa’s hand and pulled her to her feet and began to sprint after Joffrey. Whatever was following him was not something they could stand and face, which meant it was a King’s Landing muttation of some kind.

Seconds later, his query was answered as a pack of some sort of terrifying wolf muttation broke out of the woods. He didn’t bother to take time to study them too much, instead running even faster and making sure he didn’t let go of Sansa’s hand.

When they got to the cornucopia, Joffrey was already up on the roof. He was clearly severely winded as he didn’t pay any attention to them, let alone try and stop them from climbing so he could win. Jon hefted Sansa up before him, before he swung on and started to claw his way up. He could feel the breath of the wolf muttations as they snapped behind him and there was a flash of silver that flew past his face. He didn’t have time to turn and see what it was before Sansa was stretching out her arms and dragging him up.

They collapsed next to each other and he could see the tears on her face.

“They are out to get us,” she sobbed into his neck.

“What do you mean?”

“Look at those muttations, Jon, is there anything familiar about them?”

He peered down at the wolves that continued to snap at them. They were absolutely huge for one and then he noticed their strange fur colours and eyes. One with brilliant blue eyes and a hard trail of grey down one side of its cheek reared up at him. He flinched as if someone had slapped him “Copies. They’re copies of the dead tributes.”

“ _Direwolf_ copies,” Sansa said angrily.

He fingered the badge he still had pinned to him and saw that she told the truth. These were no ordinary sized wolf muttations. They were almost the size of ponies and snarled exactly the same way that the one on his badge did.

Jon turned to Sansa then, putting an arm around her shoulders. “They are just messing with your head. Try not to let it bother you.”

She wiped her tears then and tipped her chin up and looked determined. She was no longer the porcelain girl who’d left the North with him. Whilst her skin was the colour of ivory she had a steel backbone and he had never felt more proud as he did of Sansa at that moment.

“I am a Stark,” she said. “Yes, I can be brave.”

And she needed that attitude as Joffrey took advantage of their distraction to seize Sansa by her hair, dragging her up and wrapping his arm around her throat whilst he held a knife to it.

He could that see that Sansa was struggling to breathe, her face getting redder and redder and he drew his bow, which caused Joffrey to laugh.

“Go ahead and shoot me. But if I go down then I’m taking the little wolf bitch down with me.”

Jon didn’t know what to do. Joffrey was right. If he shot him in the head then the other boy would topple off the cornucopia taking Sansa with him. However, he couldn’t leave it much longer because Sansa was running out of oxygen.

Then he noticed that Sansa was outlining an x on Joffrey’s hand. Smiling grimly, Jon loosed a bow and hit Joffrey in the hand. The Westerlands’ tribute was caught mid-smirk, his hand jerking away from Sansa, who ducked down and pushed him over the edge of the roof for good measure.

She buckled to her knees then and Jon ran towards her, catching her up in his arms and whispering, “You’re safe, you’re safe!” over and over again.

Indeed, they were safe, but Joffrey’s armour held out as he did not die for hours. In the end, Jon got fed up of listening to his whimpers and as the sun began to rise, he leaned over the edge of the cornucopia and loosed his last arrow, his aim true as it struck Joffrey in the neck and killed him within seconds.

A cannon boomed and the direwolf muttations took off immediately, running down a tunnel that had opened up on the edge of the forest.

“Why is no one coming?” Jon asked, looking in the sky for the hovercraft that would lift them out of the arena victorious.

“Maybe they need us to get further away from the body so that they can collect it,” Sansa said and they descended from the cornucopia and made their way over to the lake.

A hovercraft came and removed Joffrey’s body but still no one came for them.

Sansa frowned and said, “Something isn’t right.”

There was a fanfare of trumpets and Barristan Selmy’s voice came over the arena. “Final contestants of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, there has been a review of the rules and it has been deemed that there can, in fact, be only one winner. May the odds be ever in your favour.”

Jon and Sansa turned and faced each other in dismay. They should have known it was too good to be true but hope that humanity would win out over these awful and bloody Games was always present.

“Just do it,” Sansa said resigned. “Please just make it quick.”

“I can’t,” Jon cried. “I can’t kill you.”

“One of us has to come out of here and you have more to go back for than I do. Your family needs you more than mine needs me.”

Jon thought about going back to face the Stark family – that close knit family that loved each other so much – as their daughter or sibling’s killer. He couldn’t. He _wouldn’t._

Then a plan formed in his mind. He zipped open the pouch that was still attached to his wrist and then looked at Sansa. “How about no one goes home?”

She looked at him puzzled and he withdrew the nightlock berries. A smile touched her lips and she held her hand out. “On the count of three?” she asked.

“Agreed,” he said.

They both took a handful, stood back to back and counted down.

Just as Jon put the handful of poisonous berries in his mouth, Barristan Selmy was back, his voice panicked as he cried, “Stop! Stop! I present to you the winners of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, Sansa Stark and Jon Snow.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. The Real Game Begins

Blinding white walls met Jon’s eyes when he awoke and his eyes flittered around the room desperate to try and locate some kind of identifying factor.

Had he died?

He looked down at his arms and saw the myriad of scratches and bruises. He could feel more across his body, too. Surely, if he had died then he wouldn’t be covered in wounds.

Then he remembered. Images from the Games flashing through his mind. He had somehow survived the Games and was going home. Both he and Sansa would be going home.

But where was Sansa? Was she okay? The last time he had seen her, they had been lifted up into the hovercraft. She was worse for wear than him. Her neck a horrible discoloured colour from where Joffrey had almost strangled her and she had limped, her leg wound obviously not quite healed. Was she off in some room similar to his?

The door to the featureless room slid open and the small male crow from King’s Landing entered. He carried a tray which he put down next to Jon before he gave him a warm smile. Was he happy to see that Jon had actually survived? Despite the fact that Jon had ignored him during his time of need?

Pushing himself upright, Jon looked at the crow sadly. “I should’ve helped you,” he said.

The crow shook his head vehemently, a frown descending between his eyebrows showing how much he disagreed with Jon’s words but they didn’t make him feel any better. He wished he had somehow been able to save the crow.

“Sansa?” Jon asked with desperation in his voice. “The other tribute from the North. Is she okay?”

The crow shrugged his shoulders and gave Jon an ‘I don’t know’ gesture with his hands. The crow was probably assigned to serve just him. Pointing to the bowl, the crow indicated that Jon should eat, before he patted his arm and turned away, exiting the room.

As if agreeing with the crow, his stomach rumbled and he realised that he had no idea what day it was or when the last time he had been able to eat was. He slurped up the thin broth in no time and wished there was more on the tray. However, before he could climb out of the bed and investigate, the IV drip made a whooshing sound and he was drifting back to sleep.

The next time he awoke, all the imperfections on his skin had disappeared. There were none of the scratches or bruises that he’d earned in the arena, nor any of the longer scars he bore from his illegal hunting activities. His skin was smooth and flawless. He frowned feeling as if his life had been peeled away.

The door opened and Renly entered. He stood in the door for a moment, observing him before he came close and clapped him on the shoulder.

“I knew you could do it,” he said quietly.

There a quiet moment where more could’ve been said but Jon appreciated that Renly left it at that simple statement. There was a price to winning the Hunger Games and Jon knew he would see Shireen, Gendry and even Joffrey in his dreams for a long while.

“Come on,” Renly said. “You’ve been released from the hospital wing and the team are waiting for you. You have the victory show to prepare for.”

“Sansa?” Jon asked.

“She’s fine. She’s getting ready, too.”

“Can I see her?”

“Not before the show. They want you to reunite on air.”

“Oh,” Jon said.

Then he was being lead back to the North’s penthouse apartment where his prep team waited for him with big smiles. They pulled him in close for a hug, still decked out in their signature colours and cheerfully chatted about what they’d all done during the Games and where they’d been during key moments.

Jon let it wash over him. If he thought too deeply about it then he would probably be annoyed that they were so shallow that they only thought of the deaths of children in terms of where they had been.

“They mean well but they don’t understand,” Renly murmured to him as the prep team left the room. “They all pooled their money together to sponsor you.”

That fact made him slightly better. Those gifts had often meant the difference between life and death in the arena – especially that burns cream.

Renly worked on him in silence, which Jon appreciated. He saw how thin he’d become in the mirror as he stood waiting for whatever outfit Renly had designed for this evening. He could count his ribs in the mirror.

Then he was dressed and it wasn’t what he expected. Gone were the cold, wintery, predatory colours and styles and instead he was dressed in something much softer. A white suit with a pale yellow shirt that was reminiscent of a new sun rising.

He raised his eyebrow at Renly who said, “This is the dawn after the long night.”

Jon was taken aback from the romanticism of the design. Usually victors were dressed as a manifestation of power not something so whimsical. Then again, Renly hadn’t made a false step yet so Jon went with it.

He didn’t see Jorah until he was back in the basement of the training centre. Not in the gym this time but what looked like a disused storage room.

“They’ve never had two victors before,” Jorah said, coming in with a shrug. “So they had to make some modifications and as you and Sansa are not to see each other until the cameras are rolling, they put you in here.”

Jorah came over and in an uncharacteristic display of affection, he flung his arms around Jon and pulled him in for a hug.

“Listen to me,” he whispered harshly into his ear. “The President is angry with you. There was no plan for two victors. You need to play up the romance angle to this and make your actions the desperate last gasp of a boy deeply in love.”

Jon’s romantic outfit made sense now. He was not to appear threatening. “Does Sansa know?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Then Jon’s mind was reeling. Jorah’s worried and rushed words in his ear were so unlike the usually disinterested mentor, that Jon knew this was something serious.

Jorah pulled back, his eyes intense and Jon gave him a tiny nod. He could do this. He could play up the romance aspect. It wasn’t as if he had been pretending in the arena. Once he had allowed his emotions to the surface, it had all been real.

 _But had Sansa?_ A little voice in his head asked.

Has she been pretending, knowing that it would bring her home.

He dismissed the thoughts. He couldn’t allow doubt to creep in his mind now. He didn’t have the luxury of pulling back and making sure Sansa wasn’t just playing a game with him.

All too soon, Jon was being lifted up onto the stage where Varys waited, his robes a soft rose colour in a thin silk that was very romantic.

Then he turned and saw Sansa, looking thinner than he’d ever seen her, running towards him. She flung her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. He nuzzled down into her hair, breathing in the scent of lemon.

“The victors of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games,” Varys said with a sigh.

The crowd cheered and Jon and Sansa drew apart. Mindful of Jorah’s words, Jon pressed a soft kiss on her forehead and then a more passionate one on her lips that lasted longer than was probably comfortable for those watching.

Then they were bring ushered to a small loveseat and pushed down onto it as Varys asked them all kinds of questions. Sansa sat cuddled up next to him, looking impossibly young in a matching yellow dress to his shirt. Her shoes were kicked off and her feet tucked under her as she simpered at Varys and the crowd and answered most of the questions.

Then it was time for the highlights of the Games and Jon could not help the way he tensed up. Sansa leant her head on his shoulder and her hand brushed his knee comfortingly. He looked down and she was giving him an understanding look. Neither of them wanted to watch this but it was all part of the celebration and they had to look interested as the cameras would keep panning onto their faces.

Jon kept his face clear as he watched footage of him and Shireen. It helped that Sansa squeezed his hand tightly and he could focus on that rather than Shireen’s soft smiles and the horror of the moment when that spear had pierced her chest. As he had expected, they’d shown nothing of how he had mourned her, the flowers only shown once the hovercraft had collected her body.

“One of the highlights of these Games for me,” Varys said, once the viewing was over. “Was watching you, Jon, fall in love with Sansa. We all know that she went into the arena carrying affections for you, but when was the moment that you realised you loved her back?”

It was the kind of question Jon dreaded. It was bad enough having his feelings under the spotlight for the whole of King’s Landing to analyse without him having to verbalise them too.

“I think those feelings had been there before the arena,” Jon said quietly and the crowd sat forward lapping up his words. “The time that we spent in King’s Landing enabled me to get to know Sansa, but I didn’t want to acknowledge those feelings. We were going into the arena and I might have to kill her.”

He caught eyes with Jorah in the crowed who shook his head a little and Jon knew to try and stay away from the grim side of the Games.

 _Play up the romance,_ Jorah’s eyes seemed to be saying.

“But when the announcement came that two tributes from the same region could come home, I no longer had to suppress how much I had come to love her.”

Sansa squeezed his arm and kissed his cheek and the crowd ah-ed.

“I was never more grateful to see Jon as when I did,” Sansa said, lightening the mood, making everyone laugh and moving the questions forward.

The final part of the evening was for the victors to be crowned. President Aerys came out, followed by one crown on a velvet cushion. Jon wondered who was going to be crowned and how this was going to be played out when President Aerys twisted the crown apart and it broke away into two small crowns.

President Aerys was all smiles as he placed the crowns on their heads but his eyes blazed with anger and Jon had to suppress a shudder. If he had not realised just how powerful an enemy he had made then he knew it then.

Finally, the victory programme was over, but the night was yet to end for Jon and Sansa as they were required to attend a victory feast at the Red Keep.

It was held in the old King’s Throne Room, which was a massive hall that had a monstrosity of an iron throne at one end. It was huge and there were stairs to reach the actual throne, which looked insanely uncomfortable. It appeared to be made out of swords and he couldn’t imagine why the old kings of Westeros would’ve wanted to sit on something that could harm them.

The hall was decorated with large dragon skulls. A reminder that President Aerys was a member of House Targaryen, who had conquered the old Westeros with blood and fire atop their dragons. Perhaps it was now apt that President Aerys now ruled over the region with the blood of the Hunger Games.

Sansa shivered as they entered. “This place is horrible,” she whispered into Jon’s shoulder and he couldn’t agree more. However, they had to play excited and in love victors which meant swirling around to the music with whatever guest wanted to dance with them and eating from the never ending courses that came out.

Jon was full after a fraction of the food had been served. Guyard laughed at him and offered him a vial of some sort. “Go to the bathroom, drink this and you’ll vomit. Then you can come back out again and eat more food.”

It took a moment for Jon to work out exactly what Guyard meant and when the meaning of the vial struck Jon, he recoiled in disgust.

“Why would I want to do that?” Jon snapped, turning the vial down angrily.

Guyard just shrugged and moved on leaving Jon stewing behind him.

“What was that about?” Sansa asked.

“He offered me something to make more room in my stomach for food.”

“Ooh, I could use something like that,” Sansa said with a smile.

“Not this you couldn’t,” Jon said and explained.

Sansa’s disgusted facial expression said it all. “To think that people in the regions are starving and they are taking potions to make themselves sick so they can gorge on more food,” she said.

Then the night was over, and Jon and Sansa were being driven back to the Dragonpit and their apartment. They would be leaving for the North tomorrow and Jon couldn’t wait. He wanted nothing more than to leave this hideous place and return back to the cool, sharp air of the North and Bran.

The train journey home was quiet. Jorah retired to his room and Myranda pottered about looking pleased and excited.

“I am going to miss my favourite tributes. You have done me so proud,” she said before she continued and ruined it. “Maybe next year I’ll be promoted to a better region.”

Not bothering to wait for their reactions, she clapped her hands at the prospect and disappeared out of the room.

“Good to know that we might have scored a promotion for her,” Jon said sarcastically.

“Yeah, that’s precisely what I was aiming for when I went into the arena,” Sansa replied with a laugh.

That brought it back to Jon that he still didn’t really know where he stood with Sansa. Had she been playing a game when she’d declared her feelings for him in the interviews before they went into the arena? And carried that on inside the Games, knowing it would give her an angle to play with the audience and to gain sponsors.

He sat down close beside her and asked her quietly, aware of the bugs that King’s Landing planted on all their tribute trains. “Did you mean what you said about me before the Games started?” he asked.

“When I said what?”

“That…you know…that you liked me?” he asked nervously, tugging on his curls.

She looked up at him then with sad eyes. “I didn’t lie about any of it. Why did you?”

“No,” he said vehemently. “No, none of it was pretend.”

She beamed up at him then with a breath-taking smile of true happiness. “Then I guess this makes it easier for when we get home.”

“What do you think we’ll have to do,” he asked, slipping his arm around and pulling her close into him.

“Pretend that we are violently in love,” she said.

“Hmm…that’s going to be such a hardship.”

Jon didn’t know what the future would bring, what kind of horrors President Aerys and King’s Landing had in store for him and Sansa, but he knew that he could face whatever they were as long as he had Sansa by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](http://rumaan.tumblr.com/) where I do a lot of flailing over House Stark amongst other things. Feel free to come over and say hi.


End file.
